If--
by S. Faith
Summary: What if a pivotal scene in EOR had simply not occurred? 10 chapters in all, plus epilogue. 53,952 words total. Book universe.
1. Chapter 1: A V Bad Start (Again)

**If—  
**By S. Faith, © 2013  
Words: 53,952  
Rating: M / R  
Summary: Bridget's always counted on her friends when her love life has gone to pieces—and, in recent months, especially counts on one in particular.  
Disclaimer: Really (x 1000) isn't mine.  
Notes: Another what-if scenario, this time: what if a pivotal scene in _EOR_ had simply not occurred?

* * *

**Chapter 1: A V. Bad Start (Again)**

Friday, 1 January

_9st 9 (v. bad way to start off new year); calories: large, unfathomable sum; alcohol units: insufficient; boyfriends: unknown at present_

_10 am. Mark Darcy's house. _Up at unreasonable hour after late night festivities in order to make the trip to Grafton Underwood for yearly curry torture session. Mark insisted I stay over so that I would, quote, "Not still be sleeping at half one." Surely is not normal for him to be this enthusiastic about trip to see parents, this early, on New Year's Day.

_11 pm. My flat._ Unfathomable day. Hideous time at the Alconburys', despite day starting as v. g. perfectly normal day with happiness and good feelings (though, admit may be that drunkenness had spilt over from night before) as well as boyfriend. Both now in questionable state.

Despite best effort and getting on road on time we still showed up late to my parents'—not my fault I forgot sponge bag, sort of thing that could happen to anyone—and as usual bore brunt of accusations of deliberate lateness and garnered subtle yet hateful stares from Mum.

"Lunch was scheduled for a half-hour ago, Bridget," Mum said through clenched teeth. To my great surprise (and Mark's too), Mark's parents were there.

"I know, I know." I shot a glance to Elaine Darcy, who as always looked at me with sympathy, which have never been sure is good or bad. "Sorry."

"Quite all right, my dear," she said in her usual aristocratic manner. "And how are you?"

_Tired, hungover and in a state of chaos_, I thought, but said only, "Fine. I'm fine. And you?"

"Hope you'll stay too," interrupted my mum, talking to Mark in a suspiciously sweet voice, "since your parents are already here."

"Of course," he said, though he looked a bit trapped into agreeing.

Lunch had potential to be horror, but thankfully it was not as bad as it could have been. Lots of the usual hints about Mark and me. Before I knew it we were all piling into vehicles to caravan over to the Alconburys'. "I'm glad you're driving," I said to Mark.

"So you can get a little pissed," he guessed. I laughed.

"Yeah."

About two hours later, after which was more than a little pissed, my mobile rang, and without thinking I answered.

"Bridge, where are you?"

Shit. "Hi," I trilled gaily.

"Where have you been, more like? Where did you disappear to last night?"

Flashed back to night before. New Year's party. Mark Darcy's thundering voice as he took control of situation. "You were too drunk to take me home, so I went with…" I trailed off, and my eyes rose to look at Mark Darcy, who, at that moment, noticed me looking and came near.

"What is it, Bridget?" Mark asked. "Is something the matter?"

"Who's that? Is that Mark Darcy again?" Anger now. Shit.

"Yes," I said hoity-toitily.

"And did you forget _we_ had plans?"

I went stone cold silent. Had in actual fact totally forgotten.

"Right. I get the message loud and clear. Goodbye, Bridget."

"Wait—"

Silence. I stared at my mobile, which briefly blinked that the call was put down before the little active call window shrank away. Shitshitshit.

"All's well?" Mark Darcy asked as I rang back in desperation. Didn't pick up.

Really didn't want to get into it in the middle of the Turkey Curry Buffet. "It'll be fine," I said, though am sure he knew something was wrong.

"Tell me later," he said.

After that I hardly wanted to stay. Felt like complete jerk. We left a lot earlier than originally planned and we talked in the car driving home. By the time we got back to London I felt loads better. Promised to call me and see me soon, though he had things of his own to tend to, dinner with Lavinia to make up for last night's hasty departure on my account (introductions had me nearly in tears with laughter; does he pick these girls with ridiculously vintage names on purpose?).

"Just give Eric a call," he said as he dropped me off at my flat, giving me a peck on the forehead goodbye. "Perhaps all is not lost. You do tend to catastrophise." He was right. But then he added, "You know, if it _is_ lost, it's not really a _great_ loss."

Would have smacked him on arm except he was already back behind the wheel. As if sensing my thoughts he grinned then drove hastily away with a little wave.

Went back inside to find no messages on answerphone. Tried to call Eric again from home phone as if different incoming number might prove a successful subterfuge, but he did not pick up. Left answerphone message: "Sorry for today. Sorry for last night too. Crap way to start the new year. Please give me a call." Admittedly, Mark's words echoed in head, so heart was not in it.

Saturday, 2 January

_50000st (feels like); calories: 3000 (courtesy Mark Darcy); alcohol units: 6 (saint-style person); boyfriends: still questionable_

_2 am._ Can't sleep. Keep turning over and over in head conversation with Mark Darcy from car ride home. Instinct was _not_ to call Eric as long-ingrained habit of being the pursued and not the pursuer, but Mark reminded me that men do not necessarily play by those rules. "The only _possible_ way he can know your feelings is to _tell_ him," he said, staring out into the distance as we cruised home to London earlier. Is a truth I know all too well and wish could forget. But then he turned briefly to look at me with a tender expression, and added in hesitant voice, "I mean… _if_ you have feelings for him."

Didn't respond. Still don't know how I feel, to be honest. Even more than that, though, is hate not knowing where things stand with Eric, like trying to find footing on field of molten lava, not knowing whether Eric is just temporarily annoyed with me or really ready to chuck me. I know what Mark thinks of Eric (v. little), so am certain that hesitation is his way of being diplomatic.

Appreciate Mark Darcy's advice, though while it has been v. insightful to have made such good, friendly bond with non-homosexual male of species, cannot help but think if had only opened big mouth right after Thailand debacle two years four months ago, might not be in awful lose-lose scenario with Eric now, or Robert before him, or Peter before that (not same Peter as was previous long-term boyfriend, nor Mark's married brother, though feels a bit Freudian thinking of both now). But no, was as clear then as is clear now that he only feels brotherly-type friendship towards me, wants only to be friends, as he occasionally invites me to stay over in formerly too-white room now deemed to be mine, but continues to date strange artefacts from the past called Lavinia and Rosaline.

_10 am._ After being unable to sleep long enough to watch sun rise through curtains, suddenly bolt awake. Maybe am having spooky premonition that Eric will ring and will have not in fact have sad, lonely, singleton-type Saturday evening.

_10.30 am._ Be careful what you wish for, they say. Phone began to shrill just as decided to try to sleep again. I leapt upon it, thinking, hoping it would be Eric. It was.

"Listen, Bridge, I've had time to think about yesterday, as well as New Year's," he said.

"Oh?" I asked, trying desperately not to sound, well, desperate.

"Yeah." Pause. "I can't compete."

"Compete?" I asked, baffled. "Compete with what? Who?"

"With Mark Darcy," he said. "He's obviously—"

"Eric, we're _just friends_," I interrupted.

He sighed. I waited for him to say more and he did, with resignation. "Oh, Bridge. I like you a lot, and we've had some fun together. But this obviously isn't going anywhere. Goodbye." With that he put down the phone.

Not too early to start drinking, is it? Oh. Phone again. Maybe is Eric having change of heart.

_11 am._ Was Shaz. Told her about the Eric fiasco.

"Good riddance," she said. I could hear her lighting a fag, then puffing away. Made me ache for one too, but no, cannot start that all up again. "Was sort of dull. Stick up arse. And he's a bad dresser."

I laughed. "You used to say the same about Mark Darcy."

"He saved you from Thailand," she said. "He could wear a sarong to Christmas dinner and I wouldn't give a fuck."

Pushing aside obviously bizarre yet strangely attractive mental image, I asked, thinking of all of the times she'd called him a fuckwit, "Don't you think you're romanticising just a little?"

"Besides," she went on, "Mark has a real passion for things he feels strongly about—even if I think he's wrong, I can still respect _that_ at least. Whereas Eric… he couldn't be arsed to work up an opinion on his own mother." Couldn't protest because I didn't disagree entirely. She railed on. "You'd think after five months—"

"It hasn't been five months," I interrupted, feeling sudden horrible dread as I said it that it actually had been.

"Yes it was," Shaz said. "You met him at Edinburgh Fringe."

Reeled. Shaz was right. We had run into each other at a street performance. Literally. Just then the mobile began to ring. Was Mark Darcy, of all people. "Shaz, have to go."

"Is that him?" she asked threateningly.

"Who?" I asked, thumb poised above the Answer button.

"Eric."

"No, I swear. Have to go."

I put down the handset as I answered the mobile.

"Hello, Bridget." He sounded tired. "How are you?"

Blurted out, "He chucked me." Didn't think it was right to mention Eric's reason why.

There was a long moment of silence. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's all right," I mumbled. "No great loss."

Heard him chuckle. "I suppose that spoils your plans for the night."

"They were sort of up in the air, but yes."

"Come with me for dinner," he said casually. Heart did a little leap until—"Have this thing I have to go to, very low key…."

"Oh." His vintage-era-named girlfriend must have bailed. Thought about it, then realised there was no reason not to. "Sure. I'd love to."

_11.45 pm_. _My flat._ Blimey. Should have known that 'low key' meant something totally different to Mark Darcy, because when he came to fetch me he smirked and told me to change out of my jeans and jumper and put on the black satin dress. "You know the one," he said. I did know it; it was one he had praised on many a date. Unfortunately at 9st 10 (nearly) I was unlikely to look worthy of praise in it. More like spoilt haggis in a silk purse.

"I do," I burbled, then ran to my bedroom—hoping, secretly, that he might follow me—and quickly changed into a lovely deep blue thing with a slightly more forgiving cut that I had already set aside for potential dinner with Eric. Came back out with big smile, and though he told me I looked v. nice, did not see hint of hoped-for (though completely unrealistic) unbridled wantonness in his gaze. Rather, saw a touch of disappointment there—and why not? Backside is currently size of a Renault.

I fibbed, "The black one is… needing cleaning."

"It's all right," he said. "Let's go or we'll be late."

Dinner thing was nice, v. posh, though can't for life of me remember what the occasion was. Had rather a lot of good fun poking fun at upper-class-twit types, though surprised Mark was a such a good sport about it; despite stern looks at my comments, caught him hiding smile.

"So why did Lavinia not want to come?" I asked, thinking cattily, _Getting fitted for a new corset? Practicing croquet in the garden?_

"Ah," he said with total awkwardness. "Well, she issued me an ultimatum last night, and you know how I feel about ultimatums."

Floored. Felt a little bad for catty thoughts, but not too bad, as did know how he felt about ultimatums. "Oh, sorry." Pause. "How long had you been seeing her?"

He looked down. "Three months…? Yes. About three." He smiled wanly at me. "A bit longer than Rosaline, anyway."

Fought urge to say there was no great loss there, either, and instead put hand over his without thinking. "You know," I said, "we could go in on a pair of Alsatian puppies. They can play together until it's time for them to… _you know_."

Instead of hoped-for laugh (had used mock-dramatic voice and all), he looked even more wistful, and pulled his hand away. Shit.

"Really. It's her loss," I said, hoping to right the offense given via unwanted physical contact.

"Thanks," he said quietly, then looked at his watch. "Things are ending soon here, anyway. What do you say we head out?"

"Okay."

As we walked out to his car, he surprised me by asking if I wanted to have ice cream at the Ben & Jerry's shop, which was only a few blocks from where we were. Beat having more alcohol, as we were both on verge of becoming morose drunks. "Ice cream?" I asked. "In January?"

"Well…" he said with a grin. "You got me a bit hooked."

Could not stop the laugh that came out. "I'm a _terrible_ influence, I know."

Convinced him into trying an adventurous new-ish flavour involving pretzel bits, chocolate and caramel. Liked it very much. Generally had v. nice time not talking about anything to do with Eric or Lavinia (if I never have to see or write that name again, it'll be too soon). He told me about v. difficult work case and I told him that I had a proposal due at Monday morning meeting for new on-going series.

"Let me guess," he said with a smirk. "You haven't started."

"Of course I have." Which was not entirely a lie. Have half page. Big title.

"Doing the title in a fancy font doesn't count."

"I know," I said, possibly too defensively. Spent normal amount of time picking out title font—is v. important to give off good first impression, i.e. nice-looking title—but could not admit to same as he does not understand. Anyway, does not do to always be thought of as so predictable.

By the time we were done with the ice cream, he was sobered up and drove me back to my flat. Was a group of rough-looking youths standing about on the corner smoking fags, so Mark walked me up to the building door (as if he stood a chance against a bunch of whippersnappers, but was best to allow him the illusion).

He looked down at me, smiled fondly and said, "Goodnight, Bridget." For a moment was like old times—that all-too-brief romance of ours three years ago—and heart was in throat.

Bubble burst spectacularly, though, when said whippersnappers started making rude sounds. Mark Darcy glanced up, then at me again. "Well," he said. "You'd best get inside."

"Okay," said, then turned the key in the lock. As I faced him again he was already walking to the car. I called, "Goodnight, Mark."

He waved, but didn't turn around. Came inside, closing door against horde of youths.

Now realise though that heart was in throat as much for possibility that he might only have been caught up in moment (after drinks and ice cream) or was thinking in horror that I might want to get back together when he does not want to. Things surely better as friends. Too much in the way of differences, as was proved before.

Sunday, 3 January

_9st 10 (horror); calories: 2500 (double horror); alcohol units: 5 (but 3 with lunch, so not v. g.); existence of world outside London: in doubt_

_7 pm. My flat._ Have buckled down and spent entire of day working on presentation. Only tiny distractions such as popping out for lunch (totally normal to run into Jude and have a Bloody Mary or three) and stopping for newest issues of _Hello!_ and _Marie Claire_ (v. important to stay on top of current affairs).

V. strange, though. Both telly and emails seem to not be working. Has rest of world gone up in smoke beyond what can see?

_11 pm. _Oh, fuck it. Will have to hope world really is at end as presentation is utter bollocks.

Wednesday, 6 January

_9st 7 (miracle); calories: terrifying sum, but understandable; alcohol units: 4; epiphanies: 1 (ironic as is Epiphany)_

_10 am_. _My office, Cinnamon Production Studios._ Survived presentation on Monday (in fact, fantastic response, bloody amazing; must remember this triumph when chastising self for procrastination in future) only to nearly fall dead of shock when Jude rang up a little bit ago. Actually, did not know it was Jude for three full minutes as she was speaking in pitch better suited to dogs and at v. rapid pace. (At least was not sheep voice; do not miss that.)

"I said," she said slowly as if speaking to extremely stupid person, "I am pregnant!"

Brain instantly thought of Sunday lunch. "Oh my God!" I whisper-shrieked in combination joy and of horror, thinking a.) happy news as she and Richard have wanted to spawn forever and b.) child will be damaged and will be my fault for tempting her with a drink with lunch (but was Bloody Mary, so perfectly understandable).

"You don't have to sound like that," she said in obviously hurt voice.

"No, no, really is great, was just worried—" and then explained previous thoughts.

"Oh, Bridge, I'm so glad," she gushed. "I mean, I thought you would be happy for me, but with… well, you know."

I knew she meant the Eric fiasco. "I am, Jude. Truly happy."

Was not a lie. Am v. happy for her.

_11 am._ Feel so lonely. Will die unhappy and alone without even daughter to take care of Alsatian after am eaten.

_7 pm. My flat._ Resisted Chardonnay as long as possible but willpower and spirits v. low today. Thinking again of Mark Darcy, who was, I know now, best hope for stable relationship, father of children, etc. even if votes Tory and has museum-like house. Thinking too of how he chucked me for the jellyfisher, who he then threw over in August whilst I was in Thailand (I think; v. curious even now as to what happened, never see her when am out and don't care to), followed by weird parental-style chaperoning whilst I thought someone wanted me dead, when stayed at his house until Gary the builder was caught. After that, was so painful and awkward to socially see him only as friend, but persisted. In sick, twisted way, was better than not seeing him at all.

Pain has obviously subsided and Mark Darcy has been v. good friend, v. supportive and really there for me (as have been there for him). Have accepted he does not think of me except as he would a sister, if he had one. Girls he has dated since me are complete opposite of me; can only think he regards self as bizarre aberration. On the plus side, though, can really relax and be self when going out to dinner or driving to hellacious parental event in Grafton Underwood with him.

Anyway. Am sure there is another bottle here somewhere.

Oh, telephone.

_7.15 pm._ Was Shaz. Is coming over so we can commiserate together about being childless singletons. Bringing more wine.

Thursday, 7 January

_9st 7 (continued miracle given 20s-style alcohol binge last night; 20s in age, not 1920s); calories: 1500* (saint); alcohol units: 2* (will be canonised any day now); jobs: 1 (whew)_

_* obviously these are post-sleep-and-waking-up numbers, and not post-midnight numbers, which would be v. different calculations_

_11 am_. _My flat._ Took option of 'working from home' as have skull-splitting hangover. Expect that today, 'work' will consist of opening laptop, doing magic connection to company network (well, seems like magic, anyway), and watching for emails marked 'v. important'. If can stand to look at lit screen that long. (Obviously, this is what all 'working from home' people are really doing, so is not wrong or immoral.)

_2 pm._ Had short lie down. Still no emails. Have taken self's own volume in water and can now feel hollow places in brain filling up. Resolve not to drink quite so much again, even if was v. g. night of feminist bonding with Shazzie.

_5.30 pm._ No emails all day. Have gone from feeling smug about working from home to sudden panic stations. What if ultimate boss decides everything running smoothly despite absence means position is redundant? Calm, calm… calm.

Ah! Telephone! Am going to be sacked. DOOM.

_6 pm._ Was ultimate boss, Grant E Pike.

"Bridget?" he asked in eerily Mark-Darcy-like placid voice. "Where've you been all day?"

Looked to laptop. "I've been on using the connector… thing."

"The VPN?"

"Yes, yes, that's it."

"I think you'll find you're not."

Realised in horror that internet connection was not working again. Still? Possibly still, from the weekend. As do not use internet much since got self lost down rabbit hole of pop-up ads and web redirects, did not even notice. Grovelled a bit. Thank goodness he did not sack me but rather, laughed it off and told me to just have it as a day off. And to perhaps call BT about not having connection.

Gah! Phone again. Perhaps he has changed mind!

_6.10 pm._ This time was not boss, but Tom. (Still have job, thank God.)

"Fucking, fucking fuck," he said by way of greeting, surprising me. "Fuck!"

"Tom?" Was suddenly concerned he'd been afflicted with previously unknown, virulent variant of Tourette's.

"I _know_ I shouldn't let him bother me," he said, his voice extremely emotional, "because it's been years, yet… I see him again and everything bubbles to the surface like it was yesterday."

Suspected this was about Jerome, and subsequent conversation proved suspicion was correct. (Too bad, really, that things didn't work out with his San Francisco customs agent boyfriend, Carl; big bloody row about relocating to London, which Carl did not want to do, so Tom came home alone.) Jerome had apparently been at a drinks party at a mutual friend's flat, which set this all off. Talked to Tom for v. long time as triage measure, reminding him of all of the fuckwittage Jerome has subjected him to over the years. "Plus," I concluded, "he really is a shite poet."

This made him laugh. "Oh, Bridgeline, you are _absolutely_ right," he said dramatically. "Let's have dinner. My treat. I'm in the mood for sushi."

Sometimes think Tom is changed for the worse for having lived in the Castro.

_11 pm._ Sushi really is v. g. top food and really goes well with sake. Whee!

Friday, 8 January

_9st 6 (sushi is miracle food); calories: 1500 (steady on); alcohol units: 1 (too bad there already is a St Bridget)_

_5 pm. Office._ Stuck in all-day meetings such that wanted to tear off own head and eat it. But as you see, was saint-style person, stuck to healthy salad and juice for lunch and now have made plans to have dinner and see film with Mark Darcy. "My turn to choose," he said. Had forgotten about alternating movie nights, established last time we were both single.

_11 pm. My flat._ Oh God. Dinner was v. good. Oddly, Mark was in the mood for sushi, so suggested same restaurant where Tom and I had gone. Now Japanese restaurant surely thinks am escort or similar. Tried being on best behaviour—i.e. took it easy re: sake—so that would not be wobbling, pissed floozy upon arrival to the cinema.

"What's this?" I asked as he bought the tickets. Did not see name on marquee anywhere.

"It's a documentary I've been itching to see," he said. "And, you know, I thought you might like the human interest side."

He handed me my ticket, which read _Struggle: A Post-Revolution Economy_. He watched me read it, so had to fight to keep positive expression on features, but truth was wanted to run to roof and jump off. Knew though I needed to remain supportive. "Oh," I said, forcing bright tone. "This sounds…." I trailed off. Could not muster a lie of this magnitude to him.

"I know, not exactly what one would call 'fun'," he said. "But it should be interesting."

Entirely possible it was, but as fell asleep within moments of the lights lowering, possibly due to all-day meetings or lack of meaningful protein, could not say for sure. Woke to find credits rolling and Mark Darcy with his arm around my shoulders and a smirk on lips. "Trying to keep you from falling over," he said quietly.

"I'm so sorry," I said, sitting up to regain my composure. He sat up too, very straight back, which made me feel bad for pulling away so quickly, but didn't want to come off like I was enjoying having his arm around me too much and make him uncomfortable. Gah. Is all so tangled and confusing at times. Recovering with a smile, I added, "Did _you_ enjoy it?"

He blinked rather stupidly at me. "Enjoy it?"

"Yes—did you enjoy the film?" Really, what was he thinking of?

"Oh, yes, yes," he said, "though 'enjoy' probably isn't the best word. I found it thought-provoking and insightful." We stood then; we were the last to go, or possibly the only ones to be there in the first place.

"That's, er, good I guess." Washed over with guilt again for nodding off. "Since we can't really discuss it, you could… tell me about it."

Saw small grin. "I'm not sure it would have been enough human interest to be up your street, after all," he admitted. "Though I appreciate your coming with me all the same."

He's going to Belfast or Dublin in the morning so has to be up early… so am home, alone, at unreasonably early hour for Friday night. Will sit and meditate on v. small number calories and alcohol units consumed today. Feeling smug. Righteous, even.

Saturday, 9 January

_9st 5 (continued miracle, or poss. due to vomiting); calories: 500? (oddly ashamed); gross no. of alcohol units: 6, poss. 7; net no. of alcohol units: 0 (approx.)_

_Noon. My flat._ Ugh. Could not stand smug self any longer and, as clock struck midnight, drank remaining wine in fridge in too short a time, then in equally to short a time disgorged it right back out again. Would think that not actually retaining alcohol means no hangover, but no. Life not fair at times.

_5 pm._ Oh dear. May be more than hangover. Feeling alternately chilled then fevered. Slept through whole of day. Only thing to eat is tin of soup.

Sunday, 10 January

_? st ? (unable to stand long enough to weigh self); calories: unknown, but surely negative amount; alcohol units: 0_

_10 pm. My flat. Still._ Think it is possible am dying. Or maybe sick. Have been sleeping on and off since yesterday. Ugh. Heard phone go off this morning, and later check of answerphone revealed it was Mum, who went on about a baking pan she is certain I have, but know do not have. Mobile went off in early afternoon and was sure would be mother on the trail of the pan, but realised it was Mark Darcy's ringtone.

"Mark," I said in wheeze, which is not how I usually pick up phone. In wheeze or by saying "Mark".

Silence, then, "Are you all right? You sound like death."

Admitted felt like same. He turned v. paternal and told me to take temperature, which he waited for me to do. Upon hearing result (38°) he directed me to take fever reducer at once and drink lots of water. "I'll come by with something for you to eat."

"Aren't you in Dublin?"

He chuckled. "It was Edinburgh and no, not anymore."

Came over with takeaway containers of chicken soup and made me a pot of tea. "You should go home, though," I insisted. "You can't afford to get whatever I have."

Soup was v. g., but could not keep it nor tea down. Going back to sleep.

Tuesday, 12 January

_9st 1 (but at hefty price); calories: 1500 (better); alcohol units: 0_

_11 am. My flat._ Yesterday spent in fevered haze, though did eventually keep soup down. Did not go to work, obviously, and today am working from home (verified that indeed have internet connection, did magic tunnel thing, receiving emails etc.).

Rang up Mark Darcy to thank him for kindness on Sunday night. His voice was croaky when he spoke. Turns out he started feeling poorly Monday morning, but seemed far more lucid than self did on second day of illness.

"I'm so sorry," I told him. "It's my fault."

"Don't feel guilty," he said. "Might have easily picked up something in transit to Scotland." Probably was just saying this to make me feel better. It worked.

I rang off so he could go back to sleep, but not before he admitted to me, "Sort of like having an excuse to not do anything and just rest." He must be v. poorly to admit to that. Wish wasn't feeling quite so shit, or would go and bring Mark soup.

Also started to tell me something else, but then said, "Never mind." Hm.

Friday, 15 January

_8st 12 (triumph; this too shall pass); calories: 3000 (as previously mentioned); alcohol units: 1 (small glass wine w/ dinner)_

_6 pm._ Finally felt well enough to go into office. Kept getting looks as if was walking dead or similar. Now am home with mini pizzas in oven. Shazzer unreachable (poss. at own parents for weekend) so rang up Jude to see about going out for drinks. Wish had rung Tom first as she immediately reminded about pregnancy then announced she was coming over to browse catalogues for baby things. Normally v. much love browsing catalogues but this, on a Friday night… oh God. Am getting old.

_11 pm._ Thank goodness. Jude has gone home citing tiredness and now am going to go have drinks with Tom. Hurrah!

Saturday, 16 January

_8st 13 (pizza, alcohol clearly sustenance of Satan); calories: 2000 (better); alcohol units: 6 (clearly on the mend)_

_Sunrise._ Do not dare look at clock as is far too early to be awake. Unjust world; only had normal amount of drinks, but do not remember coming back to flat. Clearly is due to illness-induced abstinence of same over previous week plus am smaller than was. Head pounding. Must find something to dull the spikes protruding into head.

_10 am._ Better. Head still feels as if rocky cliffs with waves crashing upon them, but can at least open blinds now without feeling as if—oh, telephone.

_10.30 am._ Was Mum. Before I even let her get a word out, said, "Mum, I don't have your pan."

"But Bridget, you brought a raspberry pavlova back to London in it at Christmas."

Looked on kitchen counter and there, as if taunting me, was wretched pan. Mumbled apologies.

"I'll be in town with Una today," she trilled. "I'll just swing by later and pick it up."

So now, still feeling acidic from hangover and a bit weak from illness, must tidy up flat, which currently resembles site of tornado touch-down or similar.

_7 pm._ Mum took one look at me and declared me on death's door. (State of un-tidied flat underscored this perception.) Repeatedly told her was feeling much better, but she insisted on checking for fever. When temperature proved to be normal she pouted and almost looked disappointed, so I let her make dinner for herself, Una and me. Was quite nice, actually; Una was a tempering influence so Mum couldn't get too out of hand.

They left a little while ago for drive back to Grafton Underwood, and am feeling v. lonely now. Tonight Tom seeing Jerome "in purely platonic manner" (which means, of course, that they are probably already on their third round of shagging), Jude and Richard are being all cosy and nesty at home, and Shazzer is still out of pocket. Can't think of anyone else who might be free, and ringing everyone up in phone contacts list smacks of desperation, because obviously friends compare notes and would know instantly I called everyone.

Oh, will ring up Mark Darcy. Is only polite as last heard from him while in throes of illness. Maybe I can repay favour and bring over soup or similar.

_11.30 pm. Mark's house._ Mark sounded v. rough when I rang up so offered to bring over something for him. He chuckled and said that his housekeeper had gotten him all set up with soup but if I wanted, could come over for a bit. He sounded v. lonely too, and since he probably got sick from me in the first place, I agreed.

Let myself in with emergency key he'd given me; found him reclining in bed, in pyjamas, looking haggard and tired. He greeted me, though, in much the same manner as my mother had. Actually he commented on how thin I was, at which I beamed, and he said sternly, "That wasn't meant as a compliment." But, insisted was fine a million times over (as if would have come all this way if felt like pond scum), so we watched a film together on the telly, which was nice and rather like old times, excepting no mad snogging/shagging. Did, however, snuggle up to me in manner of sick child, which I found nice and (honestly) v. distracting. Think he slept a lot so not sure how much he saw of film, but when it ended he said it was so late he suggested I stay over. Given that was same time found myself often leaving for nightclub I tried not to laugh, but sensed he might like someone here in the morning. So now am in 'my' room, all ready for bed, but can't sleep.

_Later._ Always so introspective when here, probably because is so quiet in house. Even insulated from most traffic/city sounds. Can't help think that did not even have key to house when we were going out. Maybe will go down and have tea, but no, have never felt comfortable wandering around dark, quiet house. All those nights spent during Bullet Man scenario alone in room, desperate for glass of wine or tea, and feeling paralysed, afraid might run into him and not know what to say, so did not venture out.

Though, should check and make sure not in need of paracetamol or similar. Was feeling warm earlier.

_Later still._ Oh. Oh God.


	2. Chapter 2: Of Chess and Whippersnappers

**If—**

By S. Faith, © 2013  
Words: 53,952 (in 10 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Of Chess and Whippersnappers**

Sunday, 17 January

_9st 1 (fat cells exploded due to shock); calories: 1500 (could not eat due to shock); alcohol units: 4 (natural and just)_

_9 am._ Came home as soon as I made sure Mark had some hot breakfast (instant oatmeal was about all was up to making) and orange juice. Cannot get image out of head from wee hours last night, when went to look in on Mark.

Pushed door open. Light fell across broad expanse of bed. Realised in an instant that he had only put on pyjamas for my benefit earlier, and now had none on, was completely naked, had obviously felt too warm for his duvet as had kicked it off, and… Oh God.

Backed away slowly, closed door, image of him burned into brain. More than just lean, naked body (he must keep up on five-a-side or squash), which was lovely treat for eyes, but obvious fact was that while most of him was fast asleep, one part was distinctly _not_.

Have not felt so mortified in life… yet mortification stemmed from deep and immediate desire to do something about it, even though have told self time and again that we work best as friends only. Cursed self for having had thought of going to check on him.

Was v. difficult to meet his eye this morning.

Tuesday, 19 January

_9st (fat cells calmed); calories: 2200 (better… no! Gah!); alcohol units: 4 (but for good cause)_

_7.30 am._ Getting ready for work. Completely forgot that today was some sort of big lunch meeting. Cannot find favourite black skirt anywhere. Oh God. What if left skirt at Eric's? Come to think have not worn it in while.

_8.10 am._ Have found skirt. Was tucked in carrier bag. Have no memory of how it got there.

_1.30 pm._ Right. Off to fancy lunch thing. Must remember to not get too pissed.

_5 pm._ Lunch meeting well into afternoon (obvs.) and not disaster. Two glasses of wine, barely wobbly. Hurrah! Am recovered. Salads with salmon and chicken or similar, with v. g. crème brûlée for dessert after. Is dessert after lunch a thing now? Am doomed.

_5.05 pm._ Oh dear. Have just had call from boss, v. serious voice. "Bridget. I'd like to see you in my office, please." Should not have had wine. Knew it.

_6.30 pm. My flat._ Am queen of the hour. Am fantastic. Apparently they (new clients I think) loved me and want me to produce show. Hope they do not expect me to drink two glasses of wine every day at work. (Though would not be much of a hardship, honestly.)

Friday, 22 January

_9st 1 (sympathetic baby weight gain?); calories: 2100 (maybe not sympathetic); alcohol units: 8 (drinking for two)_

_6.30 pm._ Long week at work, in which got details of new producer gig. Rosy glow fading. Is short series on the history of chess, which sounds like might possibly be most boring thing ever. But must be professional and do v. g. job.

Leaving shortly to have dinner with Jude, Shaz and Tom. Will be like old days! Hurrah!

_Later._ Blurry bast fuck alalone wildogs—ouch.

Saturday, 23 January

_9st 2 (ashamed); calories: 1800 (less ashamed); alcohol units: 0 (must make up for last night); probability will be eaten by Alsatian: rising_

_10 am._ Last night painful and disappointing. Got to restaurant and immediately felt like third wheel or as if attending one of Magda's smug married parties. Jude brought Richard, Tom brought Jerome (_knew_ it, yuck) and Shazzer brought Simon (no idea they were friendly again—and by 'friendly', mean 'shagging'). Felt need to have a little extra in the drinks department, with result in may have said some things will regret in light of day.

Air raid siren or similar has just begun going off. Must go silence hell sound.

_10.15 am._ Was wrong. Just telephone. Was Jude sounding extra bubbly and excited. "So are you ready?"

"Ready? What for?"

"Briiiiiidge," she said. "Don't tell me you've forgotten already!" Clearly had. "You promised last night to come out to Baby Gap with me."

Was right; did say things last night that now regret.

_5 pm._ Am exhausted. Had no idea one could spend whole of day shopping and hate it. We trawled over every inch of Baby Gap as if elderly beachcombers with metal detectors looking for jewellery, coins and similar, though suppose as we left laden with carrier bags, Jude had far better luck than any such beachcombers.

"Thanks so much, Bridget," Jude said, cheeks blushing with what I expect was maternal glow. "I so want everything to be right when the baby comes."

"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"

She shook her head. "I'm only eight-and-a-half weeks along. They can't do the sonogram for that until twelve weeks."

Unbelievable. Jude has just spent equivalent to one of self's mortgage payments and doesn't even know if it is for boy or girl. Though suppose everything she got is rather gender neutral.

Hungry. Hm.

_6.30 pm._ Back in flat with Chinese takeaway. Know should cook for self as is healthier, cheaper, etc. but am exhausted after day in soul-draining baby store.

After have eaten will muster courage to ring Mark Darcy. Should have phoned sooner. For all I know he could be deathly ill, and only thing keeping me from checking was burned-in image of—must not think of it.

Eat, then ring him up.

_7.30 pm._ Was v. glad to hear from me. He is feeling recovered and is back to work, which is huge relief. "And you?" he asked. "How are things with you?"

"Fine," I said, though not sure was convincing.

"Bridget, you were acting very strangely the last time I saw you, and haven't heard a peep even though you said you'd call."

"Did I?" Was entirely possible I did but forgot in my state of shock. "Sorry. No, nothing's wrong."

"Are you sure?" he pressed.

Rather than confess to bearing witness to his nocturnal salute, I blurted out, "Jude's pregnant."

"Oh," he said; funny how tender that one word sounded, or could have been wishful thinking on my part, because when he spoke again it was in a normal tone. "Well, be sure to pass along my best wishes if I don't see them first."

"I will."

There was a bit of silence before he said, "Well, it's good to hear from you. Appreciate that you checked up on me." Chuckle. "Wouldn't want the Alsatians to get me."

Chuckled too, then found self blurting out (again): "Up for lunch tomorrow?"

"Oh. Yes." Seemed surprised, to be honest. "I'd like that."

So we are fixed for lunch. Meanwhile, am home alone on Saturday night. Wonder what's good on the telly?

Sunday, 24 January

_9st (mysterious); calories: 2500 (though worth it); alcohol units: 4 (social necessity); probability will be eaten by Alsatian: holding steady_

_9 am._ Strangely looking forward to lunch with Mark Darcy today. I mean, always nice to see Mark, but looking forward more than usual. Am up and already dressed. Freakish.

_11.45 am._ Shit. Entryphone has gone off. Has startled me from sleep. Must have dozed off without—GAH. Have just seen self in mirror. Smeared mascara and lipstick, which is now, I realise, on sleeve of v. cute, soft cashmere cardigan. Now know why do not bother to dress too early in advance. Must do makeup again, and find new top.

_11.55 am._ Have just tidied self up (at record pace) to more presentable state, to repeated buzzing of entryphone. Ran to pick it up. "Sorry, sorry."

Could tell in voice he was not annoyed, but rather, amused. "I should be used to it by now."

Just pressed button to let him in, though should have said to bugger off.

_9.45 pm._ Begged Mark to give me just a few more minutes to fix self up. "I was all ready, then I dozed off and…" I trailed off.

"It's all right," he assured.

Took no time at all, I swear, and returned to find him nose deep in book and with half-finished cup of coffee. "Ah," he said, looking up. "There you are." Honestly, swear he did that to take the piss.

Ended up going to a pub 'round the corner. Will say this about going out with Mark Darcy now we're not dating: is v. nice that there is no pressure to impress or gauge responses correctly about whether or not we'll shag that night, whose flat we'll go to, and similar. Though was v. good time, began to think hair had started moving on own accord, as noticed Mark looking away from me just as I looked to him.

"What?" I asked, paranoid. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something's _wrong_?" he retorted, a little sharper than expected. Honestly, you'd think it was perfectly normal to keep staring at someone. Short temper did not last, however, and in fact instead of parting after lunch, he suggested we visit this art exhibition he'd heard good things about, celebrating the human form through history. Turned out to be great fun, even if reinforced notion that self was born with body that was meant for another era, such as Renaissance or even pre-history (thinking of the Venuses (Venii?)). By the time we were done there it was time for dinner, and since neither of us had plans, decided to have a curry at my flat.

Now he's gone and have to prepare for work tomorrow. First production meeting in the morning for chess monstrosity. Anyway. Sometimes forget how nice it is to have another person here in the evenings. Feels so lonely and quiet now.

Friday, 12 February

_8st 11 (miracle—love the lovely chess); calories: 1800 (am saint); alcohol units: 2 (am angel); probability will be eaten by Alsatian: reaching panic stations (re: Sunday and Valentine-less)_

_10 am._ So tired. Took off day to rest after mad frenzy getting chess thing to air, which has sucked life and all spare moments from it for nearly three weeks. Show came on last night, was quite pleased with the results. It actually turned out to be quite fun if exhausting, and rather interesting in subject matter. Got rung up by Mark Darcy at end of it, giving congrats on the show.

"Did you like it?" I asked.

"Oh yes," he said, so quickly and earnestly I knew he wasn't taking the piss. "It was very good. I enjoyed it very much." Did not surprise me at all as chess is right up his street. "I actually learnt a lot about the history I didn't know." He paused. "I'm really very proud and pleased for you; let me take you out to celebrate."

"Oh, I'm far too tired."

"I meant on Sunday. What do you say?"

"Sounds fantastic," I said.

Said goodnight, then put down phone. Was not until went to bed (another night in, but at least get to practise cooking, so that's something) that realised what Sunday was: Valentine's Day. So have platonic, friendly date of sorts on most romantic day of year. Though is not as if have prospects lining up 'round the block or anything.

Saturday, 13 February

_8st 10 (if only had boyfriend); calories: 2100 (still saint-esque); alcohol units: 6 (normal for night out); prospect of boyfriend: 0_

_3 pm._ Just heard from Shaz. Wanted to know if I wanted to come out tonight, so said yes, as have v. much missed interaction with friends.

"Just you and me?" I asked, hoping for more info. Mysterious scenario with Simon in that she is not mentioning whether there is scenario or not.

"Tom too," she said, which was equally intriguing. Feel like Rip Van Winkle, except instead of v. long lie down, have been separated from friends by work sequester. Have no idea what is going on with Simon or Jerome.

_7 pm._ Just leaving to meet Shaz for some dinner in advance of night out.

_Later._ Goodgood no shags a strange whippersnaps.

Sunday, 14 February

_8st 11 (How did put on one pound overnight? How?); calories: 2500 (in mourning); alcohol units: 4 (restraint impeccable); prospect of boyfriend: is less than zero possible?_

_11 am._ V. good fun last night. Head only mildly painful now. Almost like old days. We tried new Latin American-type restaurant and was v. g. though a bit spicy. Emboldened by tequila-based cocktail, wasted no time in asking, "So what is going on with you and Simon?"

She demurred answering until she had enough booze in her, then admitted that she really, really loved Simon but had chucked him again.

"Why?" I asked, shocked.

"Because I'm not sure how he feels, and it's all too weird. Can't bear it if I told him and he, like, _laughed at me_ or something."

"Why chuck him, though? Why not just see where things go?"

"Because I can't take the tension," she said. "He can be so distant, like he can't be bothered to talk to me when we're alone. Like he'd rather be anywhere else."

Felt self channelling Magda: "Why not ask him?"

She gave me a piercing look. "That's fine advice coming from you, Bridge."

Stunned at her words. She meant Mark and I knew it. "That is totally different," I said. "He chucked me for Rebecca. I didn't need to _ask_ a thing. It was pretty clear."

"But then he chucked her," said Sharon. "Maybe he had regrets."

Cannot let self get caught up in thought bogs like this. "It's not like that anymore," I said with finality. "We are _friends_. In fact, we are going out tomorrow, as _friends_, for dinner to celebrate my show."

She gave me a look but said nothing more on that subject. "What do you think about Tom, then?" she said, and we proceeded to speculate until we could get the story directly from him. Our opinion was that Jerome was a just-for-now boy, and that Jerome deserved it after all the crap he'd put Tom through.

When we got to the nightclub, Tom was there and had our drinks ready. We asked him straight away about Jerome, and he laughed. "Revenge!" he said. "Have him on a hook. Did not appreciate what he had when he had it… and now _I_ have got the upper hand!" More evil cackling. Though justifiably evil.

Everything's a bit of a blur after that, though do remember meeting very attractive flirty whippersnapper with dark hair and incredible blue eyes, v. Bradley Cooperish. We danced together and snogged a bit. Then Bradley asked me to come home with him. Was so v. tempted, as had been so long since had a shag and he was really v. sexy, but resisted as thought of, ironically enough, Mark Darcy.

Ooh, telephone.

_12 noon._ Speaking of the devil, was Mark Darcy calling to fix plans for tonight. Will be here to pick me up at half five, told me to dress up a bit. Might be able to fit into the black satin now.

"Having a nice day so far?" he asked gently, then teased, "Not too hungover, I hope."

"Just the normal amount," I said.

He chuckled. "I'll see you later. Oh, and try to have your hair dried by the time I come for you."

Will never let me live that down.

_5 pm._ Ha! Will show Mark Darcy. Am already ready, with hair, makeup etc. Just need to decide on shoes. And put on dress, but that is no big deal.

_5.05 pm._ Will wear new, gorgeous, open-toed kitten-heeled shoes. Perfect.

_5.07 pm._ Dress is not in wardrobe. What has become of dress?

_5.15 pm._ Well, have picked out lovely bra, pants, stockings and shoes. However, cannot locate dress. Pretty sure they will not let me into Mark Darcy-approved restaurant like this. GAH.

_5.25 pm._ Entryphone. Shit. Mark Darcy is early, though am not surprised. Where the fuck is dress?

_11.30 pm._ "I am ready, I'll have you know," I said as I picked up entryphone.

"I didn't say anything at all," he said, though I could tell he was smirking. "Are you coming down?"

Panicked. "I need a few more minutes."

"I thought you just said you were ready."

"I am," I said snootily. "I—"

"Then let me come up."

There is no arguing with his lawyery logic, so I pressed the button then put on a dressing gown. When he came in, he looked me up and down; hadn't exactly tied dressing gown shut. I blushed. "While a stunning look for you," he said drolly with a small smile, "I doubt you'll gain entrance like that."

I pursed my lips. "I can't find the black satin dress," I explained.

He looked incredulous. "You… can't find it? Didn't you just take it to be cleaned?"

Thoughts raced back to fib told last time I didn't wear the dress. "Er, yes. Perhaps I forgot to pick it up."

"Why don't I have a look in your cupboard? Things have a habit of getting left behind in there, don't they?" Same cupboard that the festering fillet steak had been in.

He went out then came back again with dress in hand. Frankly was astonished. "Inexplicably it was wrapped in a winter coat. Here you are."

Took it from him. Prayed it would fit, else would be really fucked. "Give me a few minutes." Went back into bedroom, slipped dress on, and thanked God, the angels and saints above that dress fit beautifully.

"Need help with the zip?" he called through the door.

Had forgotten about zip—clearly he had not. "Sure, thanks." Turned my back to door as he came in, looked over shoulder with a smile, and he coughed a little as he reached for then tugged up the zip.

"There you are," he said. "Always thought this was your best dress." Cleared his throat. Hope he's not getting sick again. "Come, we should go. Made reservation for half six, and I want to get there well early."

Dinner was fantastic. Restaurant called Trinity, v. nice and v. classy, though had to laugh at all-white appearance of décor, in manner of Mark's Holland Park house. When I told Mark he laughed. We were both having v. good time, but midway through dinner, mobile went off. Since didn't recognise number, asked Mark if it was okay if I took the call, since it might be to do with work or similar. Turned out to be Bradley whippersnapper. Told him couldn't talk just then, and rang off.

"So who was that?" he asked.

"Bradley," I said, because was too embarrassed to admit I hadn't got his real name.

"Oh," he said. "And who's Bradley?"

Felt like was being interrogated by my dad, age twelve. Awful, creepy thought. "Just someone I met while out last night. Obviously, I don't want to see him tonight."

Thought that would make Mark feel better, as meant I was perfectly content to be at dinner with him on Valentine's as friends, but he seemed a bit down. "Oh," he said at last, then smiled a little and very quickly changed the subject. "So are you up for some dessert, then?" He tried, but seemed to me his spirits were a bit deflated after that. Told self must remind him to have some Echinacea and vitamin C, in case was coming down with another cold.

Brought me back to my flat and to my astonishment the whippersnapper was lurking outside my building. "Bridddgurt," he said, obviously pissed. Was so like Daniel Cleaver it gave me the shivers. Bradley pointed to Mark accusingly. "What're you doing with this guy?"

Had seemed so nice in the club! One nice, sexy dance is hardly a long term commitment! He was acting totally mental—and how on earth did he know where I lived? Had I told him? "You have no right asking me that," I said, furious. "We only danced for a bit last night."

"Danced?" he asked, seeming creepily sober all of a sudden. "Was a bit more than dancing, Bridget. You very nearly—"

Knew what he was about to say and interrupted as felt self go red all over: "Go home."

The odd Bradley-Daniel hybrid scoffed. "Me last night, this guy tonight… care to book me again for tomorrow for an in-house?"

Surprised then to hear Mark sound v. authoritative. "I don't know who you think you are," he bellowed, "but if you don't leave this instant, I'll break your fucking legs."

Was shocked at his language, though v. grateful for his defence, even though probably could have dealt with him myself, thinking back. Anyway. Bradley gave Mark a horrible, death-dagger look but shambled away.

"Thanks," I said.

"Don't mention it," he said. "You'll be all right?"

I nodded. "Thanks."

"You've said that," he said. Could tell his patience was wearing thin. "You know, you should be a bit more careful when you go out, handing out your number and address. I'm not always going to be around to intervene."

Had thought about asking him up for coffee, but after that, decided not to. He wasn't jealous; he was merely being protective, as usual. The rest of the night would hold nothing but lectures. "Thanks for a nice night," I said tiredly.

He didn't say anything right away. Then he bent, pecked my cheek, and said, "You should get upstairs. Good night."

Now writing this, feeling a bit bewildered, adrift and a touch lonely, but suppose that is my own fault. Hope Mark is not angry with me, though honestly, am slightly angry with him for telling me off in public like that.

_Later._ Rang up Shaz, though she did not pick up. Left message asking if am totally mad for giving total stranger (despite being hot young sexy whippersnapper) my home address.

Monday, 15 February

_9st (trauma); calories: 2100 (this must stop); alcohol units: 3 (only right during lunch); eventuality of conversion to pod-person: almost certain_

_9 am._ Have just heard from Shaz. Having lunch to discuss Valentine's Day massacre, as it were.

_9.45 am._ After some thought, decided to ring up Mark Darcy. Could not stand thought of him being upset with me. "Mark Darcy," he said in that way he has.

"Hi Mark, it's me."

Pause. "Hello, Bridget." Voice slightly softer. "Need me to come shoo away random boys from your building again?"

I smiled. He clearly wasn't holding a grudge, thank goodness. "Just wanted to say I'm sorry."

"Sorry? What for?"

"For thinking unkind things about you last night," I explained.

He laughed.

"You know what I mean," I said, feeling a bit frustrated.

"Yes, I do, Bridget," he said, in a tone that suggested some act of senility from a gran or similar, though, oddly enough, seemed tenderly meant. "I'm sorry too," he said. "I shouldn't have come down on you so hard. You're a grown woman; you can make your own choices."

"No, it's okay, I understand what you meant."

Things went quiet.

"Are you free for lunch?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I've already made plans with Shaz."

"Oh," he said. Sounded so disappointed. "Maybe later in the week."

"Tomorrow?" I suggested.

"Can't," he said. "Court."

So we fixed for Friday, then said our goodbyes. Think all is well again.

_2.30 pm._ Back from lunch with Shaz. Turns out she did not pick up call last night because she was enthusiastically shagging Simon.

"But I thought you chucked him!"

"I did," she said with a smirk, then a wink. "Couldn't stand the thought of Valentine's Day without a shag, though."

Reached across table and gave her arm a gentle smack. "You're giving him false hope, Shaz. Now he's going to think he's in your good books."

"Why can't I do what millions of men do all the time?" she said defensively. "Equality for the sexes!"

Thought back to all the times we'd not been phoned after what had seemed like a reconciliation shag, and had a thought that that sort of pain and heartache wasn't exactly what anyone wanted when talking of 'equality'.

"I don't know," I said, feeling v. uneasy. "It doesn't seem… honest."

She laughed. "You sound like Magda."

"Magda's happily married," I said, pushing down the image in my head of the screaming car alarm/baby scenario of a few years ago. "Maybe she knows something we don't."

"So how was your date with Mark?" she asked, deliberately changing the subject in such a way to throw me completely off. "And are you talking about that lovely young stud from Saturday night?"

Explained again that it was not a date, and yes, that the young stud showed up at my flat. "Did I even give him my phone number and address," I asked, "or is he, like, stalking me?"

"No, you gave him your info," she said. "Quite willingly."

I shuddered. "Do not let me do anything of the sort again."

"Not even a phone number?"

"Well, maybe a number. I just do not need crazy showing up at my flat."

With this agreed upon, we moved to other things: Tom and Jude. Tom we gave up as lost (not literally)—he was a bit mad to be messing around with Jerome again, but we hardly could tell him what to do. Reminded me of what Mark Darcy said about being a grown woman (me, not Tom). Jude, though—we felt things would probably not be quite the same.

"You realise once the kid is born Jude'll turn into another Magda," whispered Shaz. I nodded in agreement. Not that this was a bad thing in and of itself, but it was unlikely she'd come out drinking at the drop of a hat or stay out all night with us… and when she did come out, it would be stories of thrush and mastitis. Ugh. Feel as if friends are slowly being pulled into pod-person type scenario that will soon pull me in, too. V. conflicted feelings, though, as would _like_ to have husband (or long-term-committed boyfriend), baby, etc. some day. Will it turn me into Stepford Wife or similar? Hate the thought.

Meeting now to discuss chess show. Hate that they call it post-mortem. Does not generate v. g. feelings.

Wednesday, 17 February

_8st 12 (wild joy); calories: 1800 (better); alcohol units: 2 (excellent); path to worldwide domination: open_

_9.30 am._ Have been too busy making plans to update. Am being sent to New York at the beginning of March to meet with networks in US who are showing interest in the chess programme! Feels so mature and adult… am certain will fuck it up in some way.

No, no. Cannot think that way. Is negative and wrong, and will undermine confidence in self.

Spoke to Mum yesterday, though I don't think she quite understands what I'm doing: "You're going to New York for chess? I didn't even know you played." Did not try to explain. Would have drained all strength, all life out of me.

Friday, 19 February

_8st 11 (must keep this up); calories: 1700 (better); alcohol units: 7 (not nearly enough); coincidences: more than am comfortable with_

_1.30 pm._ Just back from lunch with Mark Darcy. Told him all about how Cinnamon Productions wants me to meet with network folks next month who are interested in rebroadcasting my chess programme.

"That is fantastic," he said with genuine warmth in his eyes. "I'm really very proud of you. So who's rebroadcasting? BBC? ITV?"

"No, no, in New York! In America!" I gushed. "Though am a tiny bit nervous about presenting things and putting my best foot forward."

"You'll be great," he said; he always seems to know the right things to say. "Wait, when did you say you're going?"

"Leaving on the twenty-seventh. Have meetings first and second weeks of March. Two whole weeks in New York, imagine that!" Again dazzled self with thoughts of traipsing through Times Square, Central Park, and similar.

"You sound like your mum," he joked. "Actually, that's a pretty amazing coincidence, Bridget. I've been asked to speak at a series of panels at the United Nations—" _Bloody braggart_, I thought fleetingly, though it is sort of what he does. "—and the timing perfectly aligns with when you'll be there. Where are you staying?"

I hemmed and hawed; have had no luck finding a hotel room that wasn't in the outer reaches and sure to be infested with roaches, bedbugs or similar. "Still working on that," I offered lamely.

"Never mind that; you can stay with me in Manhattan."

Jaw dropped open. "You have a flat in Manhattan?!"

He laughed. "No," he said. "A colleague of mine is in the Caribbean on holiday for a few months and is letting me use the flat. There'll be no problem if you stay with me." After a beat, he said, "I mean, you'll have your own room, so that's not a worry. And maybe with no hotel to pay for, they'll give you an extra spending allowance."

I chuckled; could think of worse things than being showed around New York by Mark, though felt a bit… don't know, melancholy at pointed reminder that we were not, in fact, sleeping together. Even though all is better as friends. (Pushing image of naked body out of head constantly.) "Thanks. I'll talk to Grant and see what they can do."

Took down his flight details, and hoped I could get moved to the seat next to his.

_2.45 pm._ Hurrah! Is all settled. Will be on same flight as Mark Darcy so maybe he can pick me up with company car, and won't have to run the transit gauntlet and risk being late. Is almost, sort of, kind of like a mini-break. (Gah. Must stop thinking these thoughts.)


	3. Chapter 3: New World Adventure

**If—**

By S. Faith, © 2013  
Words: 53,952 (in 10 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 3: New World Adventure**

Saturday, 27 February

_9st 1 (cannot work futuristic scale, so weight is based on mood); calories: 2000 (though hungry at odd times); alcohol units: 3 (bloody Mark Darcy); flat: big beyond all sense_

_11 pm (New York time)._ Today did not go as smoothly as had hoped. Mark and car came much earlier than had expected, so packing consisted of throwing everything into suitcase and hoping for best. (Though now I'm here, realise have forgotten power converter thing to charge phone and laptop. Thank goodness Mark is better at planning these things.) Do have massive daily allowance so am hoping can pick up anything needed now we're here.

Flight was smooth and quite comfortable; had champagne and top lunch of steak and potatoes. Brought book and magazines to read for flight but barely touched them for having such a good chat with Mark nearly the whole way. Though did doze off a bit after dinner, woke up resting mostly on Mark's shoulder. He was dozing too. Looked so sweet.

Anyway. Due to flight length and time zone difference, barely a few hours had passed on the clock by the time we touched down. Got through customs (with no panic attack and no mysteriously appearing packets of cocaine, hurrah), and took a taxi to the flat.

If Mark Darcy's house could be turned into a flat, it would be this flat, though obviously not as pristine and white, or quite as huge. Is sprawling and covered with gorgeous artwork and décor, and a view off the balcony of Central Park that is to die for. Can only imagine what flat costs and feel like interloper, squatter or similar. Have to say, though, that something's not quite right about place, even if cannot put finger on it.

Despite everything we took walk around neighbourhood then Mark took me to dinner, which was v. g., though cautioned me not to have too much wine to drink. "You're already dehydrated from the flight and you'll have a wretched hangover from even what you consider normal amounts of wine." Don't know if he was taking the piss, but did only have one small glass of wine.

Now is late, considering time woke up and actual time in London, but not yet ready for sleep. Should try, though. Am in my room which also has view of twinkly-lit city that never sleeps, but strangely enough thinking of Mark in next room. V. odd how ex-boyfriend can be one of self's best friends. Cannot think of another ex with which this has happened.

Sunday, 28 February

_10st (would swear gravity is stronger in NYC); calories: 1800 (surely correct using metric conversion); alcohol units: 2 (limited wine in house—tragic)_

_10 am._ Need metal spike to ease pressure in head. Perhaps one of sculptures will suffice. Ugh.

_10.10 am._ Mark has been lovely and brought me coffee and toast with raspberry jam for breakfast in bed. (When did he get food? From where?) Also brought something for pain in head. A right angel this morning. "What are we doing today?" I asked before taking a bite from the toast.

"Well…" he said, seeming momentarily distracted. "Intending on reviewing my notes and my presentation. You probably ought to do the same. When and where are your meetings?"

"I'll have to check my email," I said. "Surely we can go out for a bit later? For lunch or dinner or something. Or to see the Statue of Liberty. Please?"

"I'm sure we can make time for a little sightseeing today and during the week," he said.

"Oh, goody," I said. Finished the toast, took a big gulp of coffee, then set the plate and mug aside on the night stand. Reached forward and gave him big hug where he sat. "Thank you so much," I said. "That helped a lot."

V. odd reaction from him; went all weird and stiff. "It was nothing," he said, squirming out of my embrace, and not looking at me as he stood. "I'll be in the main room. Get yourself dressed and we can work for a bit."

Great. Have offended him with hug on first day of fortnight in New York.

_3 pm._ Thank goodness all weirdness has gone away. We did work for a few hours then we went out for lunch; went over to Rockefeller Plaza and had hot dogs with 'the works' (mustard, sauerkraut and sweet onions in a weird tomato-y sauce), which should have been disgusting but was v. g. (though afterward, v. glad had some breath mints in hand bag). Mark clearly thought it was questionable, though he ate it (and seemed to like it) anyway. Then talked Mark into skating on the famous rink. Absolutely fantastic, and felt good to be better than Mark re: at least one ice/snow-based sport. Started to snow as we skated, which made whole thing feel like a film, except is not actual romantic comedy.

Now back in flat and feels v. boring to simply be going over television pitch as if revising for exam. Think will download photos from phone to laptop.

_3.10 pm._ Took more pictures than thought. Nice one of Mark and me with our giant, almost-bigger-than-head hot dogs. Have also got v. funny one of Mark falling on bottom on ice rink, ha ha.

_3.20 pm._ Looking over fifty different pictures and realise what bothers me about this flat: not a single photo in entire place! V. strange.

_3.25 pm._ Come to think of it, v. little in way of personal items anywhere in flat. Bureaus empty! And nothing in closet in my room. Who are these people who go on holiday for 'a few months' and empty house of clothes? (Though, come to think of it, if self had a holiday of several months, might do same as would worry would want the one thing did not bring.)

Will go ask Mark.

_5.45 pm._ Went to find where Mark had got off to and found him cutting vegetables in kitchen. "Mark," I said, "this friend of yours. Is he superstitious?"

"Pardon?" he said, not looking up.

"Well, there are certain cultures that believe cameras steal your soul. There aren't any photos in the place. At all."

At this the knife slipped and he nicked his finger. Not deep wound, though apparently not a plaster in the place—also v. suspicious!—so had to go down to little market and buy some. Came back and made sure was all bandaged up, but he banished me from kitchen while he finishes. Realise now though he never answered question. Will ask over dinner.

_9 pm._ Dinner was fantastic: vegetable stir-fry and roasted chicken breast. Suspect healthiness factor was to compensate for hot dogs eaten earlier. Tragically, only one glass of wine as one bottle was all we had in the flat, but at least was big glass. He talked about his presentation and I talked about mine; was rather like old days when we would give each other pointers about work. Then we realised the time, and while not late, Mark has to be up and out by seven. So now Mark has gone to have bath, and have just realised that question of whose flat this is, exactly, remains unanswered. Why so evasive?

Should go in and ask while captive audience in bathtub, but no. Remember what it was like to see Mark naked last time, and am fairly sure Mark does not use foaming bubble bath.

_9.10 pm._ Oh God. Think have it figured out. Flat must belong to ex-girlfriend or similar. Someone he knew/met when here for two months after we split. No wonder he does not want to tell me—but then what about Rebecca, for whom he undoubtedly chucked me? Is all confusing, yet makes sense. Perhaps does not want me to know he maintains friendship with more than one ex. Why, though, would she not have photos? Or personal items? Comforted by thought she might be horrible-looking cow.

_Later._ Oh my _God_. What if he is still friends with Rebecca?

No, _no_, must not think such thoughts. Do not think he could be close friend to both me and to her, too.

Friday, 5 March

_8st 7 (v. v. g. week); calories: 2000 (give or take a thousand); alcohol units: 6 (feeling v. festive)_

_5 pm._ Week of meetings has gone by in whirl. Seem to be v. impressed with show itself, though they have minor suggestions for narrative changes for American audiences. Spoke with Grant, who says it's something he is willing to consider but he wants input on changes, will probably have to be written approvals, etc. etc. V. exciting. Feel like top notch litigator, or mediator hammering out Middle Eastern peace treaty or similar.

Oh, just heard door. Is probably Mark Darcy. Hope is Mark Darcy, else stranger has just entered and am in deep trouble. Emergency number is 991? 999? Shit.

_5.05 pm._ Whew. Is only Mark after all.

_11.10 pm._ Went out for fantastic posh dinner with some of Mark's work colleagues. Was afraid would be severely outclassed but they were far less Tory-ish than UK colleagues, with great sense of humour. We all got on v. well. Find it a bit strange that they never once asked if Mark and I were married, going out, etc. Maybe he told them all in advance not to ask?

Now we're back at flat and Mark has gone off to clean up for bed, so I have done the same. Maybe will go out to make tea.

_11.45 pm._ V. odd. Was waiting for the kettle to boil (no electric kettle here—savages) and went to window to peer out. Flat lights were otherwise dimmed. Bizarre sense of disconnection from world; we are up high enough that cars looks like toys, and distant windows seem but pinpricks of light. Is all very disconcerting and surreal. Anyway, heard kettle start to rumble, turned back towards hob, and got fright of life when realised Mark Darcy was standing just beyond the kitchen, barely illuminated. "Hi," I said, for lack of anything more substantial to say. "Was just making some tea. Do you want some?"

"No," he said; just kept looking at me in a piercing way.

I prompted, "Everything all right?"

"Oh, fine," he said, but then looked away. "Heard you moving around out here and wanted to make sure all was well. Good night." With that he smiled a little, turned, and went back towards the bedrooms.

Now am back in room with tea and biscuits. What was that all about? Makes me wonder how long he was standing there. And why?

_Later._ Oh God. Was probably afraid would set fire to kitchen and burn down entire building.

Sunday, 7 March

_8st 2 (lots of walking); calories: 4000 (lots of food); alcohol units: 2 (am practically teetotaller)_

_7.30 pm._ Mark Darcy decided we should see more of the city yesterday and today, so went all around Manhattan (subway travel and a lot of walking) in manner of camera-wielding tourists. Am thoroughly shattered; not used to so much walking. Think will go to bed v. early.

_7.35 pm._ Though really wish could have sex right now.

_7.40 pm._ Know cannot. V. inconvenient. Shall put mind on to other things in manner of cloistered nun, like shoebox gardening.

Monday, 8 March

_9st 5 (feeling a bit rounder); calories: 1800 (ascetic); alcohol units: 6 (understandable)_

_6 am._ Gah. Have just woke from disturbing* dream involving bathtub and Mark Darcy. Repressed feelings find other ways of surfacing.

(* by 'disturbing' mean 'erotic')

_6.10 am._ May as well stay up. Cannot risk additional frustration. Will have shower. Have lunch meeting anyway.

_7 am._ GAH. Have just come back from shower and in leaving bathroom, walked directly into Mark Darcy wearing nothing but bra and pants (what self was wearing, not Mark; that would be weirder beyond belief). Kept self from shrieking as hurried down hallway to my room, but could not stop blush from flooding skin. Mortified.

Did not expect him to be up so early. Bloody hell. Maybe should hide in room until he goes out, though no, cannot live life (esp. in shared flat) this way. Will have to get self dressed then go out and face the morning with bravery do not feel.

_9.30 am._ Thank goodness. Mark acted as if nothing at all had happened. Should have known would handle it with grace like a gentleman. Tried to apologise but would hear nothing of it. However, he did suggest (with a smirk) picking up dressing robe.

_10.30 am._ Need to head out to lunch meeting (v. important not to be late) but am now feeling sleepy.

_11.45 am._ Shit. Fell asleep. Am now going to be v. late. _Shit._

_11.50 am._ Hurrah! Have called network and they are sending a car for me! Feel v. powerful and influential, like Wall Street investor or similar. Car will be here in twenty minutes.

_3 pm. In platonically-shared-with-Mark-Darcy flat._ Back. Meeting fantastic, cocktails superb, and all of the changes requested were approved by Grant so is done deal. Hurrah!

(Er. May still be a bit squiffy, but had to have drinks as no more wine in house. Tragic.)

_3.25 pm._ Hm. Flight home not until Saturday. Will go mad without wine. Think will venture out to see about wine.

_4 pm._ Hurrah! Asked down in concierge about where to buy wine, and he directed me to place round corner. Have returned with two bottles; a Chardonnay for myself and a nice red for Mark, since am sure he could use a glass. Had another presentation today so will probably like the wine to take his mind off things.

_7 pm._ Am goddess. Mark came in looking totally wrecked, and bottle of wine made him light up like it was Christmas morning. "Thank you, darling," he said with a little peck to my cheek. Felt a bit strange, like was '50s housewife, and hearing him say 'darling' was nice, though unexpected. Was v. easy to talk him into Chinese takeaway. So many places to choose from!

_7.45 pm._ Wine is v. g. Should only have one glass though. Maybe two. Dinner should be here v. soon.

_11 pm._ Oops. Wine gone. Mark off to bed, to sleep.

_11.10 pm._ Feeling v. lonely. Cannot even call Shaz or Tom. Is too late back home.

_11.25 pm._ Realise in this living-together scenario, we are like married couple. Only no sex. Though Magda might suggest that sentence redundant. HA. HA. Am funny.

Thursday, 11 March

_9st 1 (easing self into more realistic expectation); calories: 2100 (living it up before return); alcohol units: 2 (wine deficit again)_

_10 am._ Have been doing more sightseeing with Mark on his off days; has been so nice. Reminds self of previous entry where said it feels like we're married couple. Even more so, strangely, than time spent staying at Mark's house when life was threatened; in big multi-storey wedding cake house, was easy to avoid one another, but here, while is large flat, is much cosier a setup.

Will seem strange to wake up and not have brilliant, panoramic, postcard-esque view of city and Central Park. Instead, view of train. So glamorous.

Sunday, 14 March

_8st 11 (exactly same as when left! At least last guess was wrong); calories: 1800 (no more holiday eating); alcohol units: 6 (possibly more; lost count); days left at current age: 6_

_Noon. My flat._ Feel like have lost half a day in flying east, and also feel as if am up at ridiculous early hour on Sunday when it is already noon. Best to take it easy and work self back into London time. And also to drink lots of water, per Mark Darcy's advice, to stave off headache.

Flight home was equally nice as one there. Left early in the morning and was practically dinnertime by the time we got here. Had nice chats while in the air, reviewing the respective successes of our objectives, but dozed off after lunch was served. After we landed Mark's car brought us back to London. Thought we might have dinner together as a last hurrah, but Mark said he was feeling really tired so we came directly to my building and we said our goodnights (though he was kind enough to bring my bags up to my flat). Had a frozen mini pizza for dinner (well, obviously cooked it first) then… must have been more tired than thought because next thing it's morning and am face down on my sofa.

Could really use cup of coffee, though.

_12.25 pm._ Have remembered am out of coffee. And milk. And pretty much all perishable food. Really do not want to go out though. Wish could be delivered to house like all manner of things in New York.

_12.45 pm._ Have resigned self to fact that coffee, milk, and similar is not going to magically appear in pantry and fridge, and downstairs neighbour Dan is not home. Must drag brush through hair, put on some makeup and go down to get the necessities. Possibly a cappuccino, too, to ease the pain of adult-style errands.

_4 pm._ Have returned with full array of foodstuffs and, most importantly, wine. Totally exhausting excursion. Think this calls for a tiny glass of wine.

_5.15 pm._ Still feeling v. much in holiday mind-set. Do not want to cook for self. Calling for takeaway. Oh! Maybe Indian place will deliver.

_6.30 pm._ Hurrah! Have dinner and wine and everything is good. Except feel v. lonely after two weeks with another person around almost all of the time. Underscores pitiable relationship state to finish another revolution around the sun without boyfriend.

_6.50 pm._ Maybe should invite Mark Darcy over, except no. Is probably so, _so_ sick to death of me.

_9 pm._ Thot hd more wines. Wheres wines.

Monday, 15 March

_8st 12 (how? From where?); calories: 2100 (not exactly gluttonous); alcohol units: 0 (must abstain after yesterday)_

_7 am._ Ugh. Must go in to work for meeting with acidic hangover (rather, in to work with acidic hangover… oh, never mind). Do not know what was thinking when drank whole bottle of wine last night, after transatlantic trip with jet lag, etc. However, is a bed of own making, and must lie in it. (Wish could continue to lie in bed.)

_11 am._ Whew. Have survived the meeting and am reasonably certain was able to pass self off as someone not about to toss cookies (as they say in America) at any given moment. Think will ring up Mark Darcy and see how Monday is treating him.

_11.25 am._ First thing Mark asked was, "How are you doing after all that wine?"

Aghast, had to ask him how he knew, and by that I mean that I asked, "What makes you think I was drinking last night?"

He laughed a little, though it sounded more sad than anything. "You don't remember, do you," he said, rather than asked.

"Of course I do," I said defensively, then added, "Remember what?"

At this, his laughter was a little more mirthful. "You phoned me last night."

Mind raced like mad. What had I phoned and said? Ugh, v. bad business to get so pissed on own and be left to do mad things, in manner of overly expressive Christmas card fiasco. "Oh?" I asked, trying v. hard not to let my voice betray the anxiety I felt.

"Don't worry. You were fine," he said. "You were very sweet."

Oh God. Have mortified Mark Darcy. Hope did not proposition sexually or similar, though surely he would've mentioned _that_. Maybe not. "I'm sorry."

"No need for apologies," he said. "It's not like you…" _Swear_ he was going to say exactly what had just thought. Instead, he changed subject. "Well. How _are_ you doing?"

"Feel like death," I said in all honesty. "Stupid of me to get pissed like that right after flying."

"We all have slips in judgment," he said, with a curiously soft tone.

"I seem to have more alcohol-based slips than most," I grumbled.

I could hear a little chuckle again. "I can't disagree there," he said. Bastard. "Listen, are you… oh, never mind."

"What?

"I was going to ask if you wanted to have lunch, but you probably can't stand the sight of food right now."

Was true, but really wanted to have lunch with Mark. "No, no, I'll be fine," I said, lying through my teeth, thinking that I'd just plant myself in the ladies until he arrived, in the off chance the nausea would resolve itself.

"All right," he said. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

_2 pm. At office._ Managed not to toss said cookies onto Mark Darcy during lunch, though it was a close call once or twice. Got the usual stern look and lecture about the dangers of overdoing it (as if were something never said to me before in whole of life), but when he saw possibly green pallor of skin he eased up a bit.

"Why don't we order you some broth," he said, "and a side of steamed asparagus?"

Was grateful to be not at pub but actual restaurant. Nodded as assumed that Mark had some secret inside knowledge of hangover remedies (perhaps why he never appears hung over?), though was also somewhat vexed that he was taking charge of self in manner of parent over sick child. Had to concede, though, that combination broth/asparagus remedy worked, as felt much better after not too long.

"Glad that seems to be working," he said.

"Me too," I said, then, desperate suddenly for details on my drunken call, asked, "So, what did I say?"

"Pardon?" (He'd obviously heard me and knew what I meant; think he was buying time.)

"Last night, when I called. Exactly what was it that I said to you?"

"It's not important."

This led self to believe perhaps it was much worse than previously feared. "What was it?" I pressed.

"I don't recall exactly."

Now I knew he was putting me off, because Mark Darcy does not forget anything, like, _ever_. "Mark, tell me what it was."

His response surprised me. Not so much the words, but the brusque tone: "Bridget, drop it."

Sat back in chair. Stared at remaining asparagus spear, and resisted urge to Bobbitt it. "Fine," I said. When looked up at long last, saw him looking at me with big sorrowful eyes. Instantly forgave him, though resolved to wheedle info out of him at soonest. I smiled, and he smiled back.

"I should get you back to your office, and me… bloody case review."

As we left I said, "That really did do the trick. Thanks for lunch. By the way—how did you know that would work?"

His smile was mysterious. "Come now, darling. Can't a man have his secrets?"

Bloody man.

_2.30 pm._ Resisting urge to call and demand hangover remedy source secret. Surely not uni secret handed down by Daniel Cleaver; he was clearly hung over far too much to have had secret remedy.

_2.35 pm._ Will grant him this: this secret has totally made me stop obsessing about… what was the other thing? Oh, right. Drunken phone call. Sure it was nothing.

Have begun SMS and email campaign to find out the truth behind secret. Text of message: "Tell me, tell me, tell me." Ha.

_2.45 pm._ Have just sent tenth email and tenth SMS in as many minutes. Double ha.

_3 pm._ Mark Darcy is one cool customer. The barrage continues.

_3.05 pm._ Shit. Have forgotten about dial-in meeting with colleagues in Cardiff. Continuing campaign.

_3.30 pm._ Aha! Hahaha! A reply!

"If you continue this," it reads, "we shall blacklist you for unsolicited emailing."

Oh. Was automated reply from internet people. Will cut back to one message every five minutes. Seems like that would be all right.

_4 pm._ Still no response. Now he's just being difficult.

_5 pm._ Have just received SMS in response. Smug bastard.

"One search engine. Three little words: 'best hangover food.'"

Friday, 19 March

_8st 11 (progress in loss); calories: 1900 (best behaviour); alcohol units: 7 (is Friday, after all, and birthday on Sunday)_

_5.30 pm._ Week has simultaneously flown by and dragged on. V. grateful to be leaving and meeting Shaz, Jude and Tom for dinner; birthday celebration early since Sunday is not optimal celebratory day and they preferred tonight to tomorrow. Suspect long night of shagging planned for all.

_5.35 pm._ Is understood no one to bring boyfriends/husbands/partners. Will chase out Richard, Jerome or Simon with steak knife if required.

_6.15 pm._ Am unexpectedly first to arrive. Have ordered consolatory gimlet, which is v. g.

_6.25 pm._ Jude showed up with Richard. One look at self's face and he waved and left. Good. Do not need messy paperwork of criminal menacing charge.

_6.45 pm._ Whole gang now here, hurrah!

_Later._ Such goonight, goofriends. V. wrong tho, v. wrong.

Saturday, 20 March

_8st 12 (madness); calories: 2100 (mostly broth and asparagus); alcohol units: 2 (tame given the circumstances)_

_10.30 am._ Ugh. Will never learn lesson. Never. Have paid Dan downstairs to go fetch some broth and asparagus for self. Looked at me as if was mad. Gave brief explanation of why. Look of suspected madness did not abate.

_11.15 am._ Dan back with purchase. Smell of asparagus makes self want to vomit. But, know that this works, so have set broth to warming and put on pot of water to steam veg. Hope do not overcook as mushy asparagus is vile.

_12.30 pm._ As if by miracle, managed to get broth and asparagus practically right. At least edible.

_12.40 pm._ Starting to feel good enough to have coffee now. Must buy emergency stash of broth etc. to keep for future hangover emergency.

Was v. curious night out yesterday with Urban Family. Most of evening's conversation centred around Mark Darcy and the two-week stay in a flat alone with him in New York. Did not believe me when told them we really, truly, actually did not, in fact, sleep together.

Shaz made great roaring sound. "You are such a fucking liar."

"It's true!" I said, indignant.

"Come on, Bridge," said Tom, taking out a cigarette, then, remembering there was no smoking allowed, he put it back with a huff. Resisted urge to jump on him for it. "You can admit to a relapse to us."

"I'm telling you the truth," I said. They looked between each other, as if hiding great secret, or avoiding telling me I had asparagus stuck in teeth. "What?" I demanded.

"The thing is, Bridge," said Shaz, with an air of portentousness, "we were all convinced for the longest time that even after you split up, he was still in love with you."

Floored. "No," I said. "Totally wrong."

"Well, obviously," said Jude. Felt disappointed; secretly wanted her to insist the point that he was. "I mean, three years later, and nothing. Two weeks alone in a flat with you every day, and nothing."

"Are you sure he's not gay?" asked Tom, not very helpfully.

"I know!" said Shaz, stabbing her finger in the air. "I've got it."

"What?" I asked desperately.

"He's got a complex," she said. "He's always wanted to have a sibling."

"He has a sibling," I reminded. "An older brother."

"Okay, then, a little sister," Shaz said, amending her theory on the fly. "Someone he can alternately boss around and care for."

"Ew," said Tom.

"Well, obviously not when they were _shagging_, at least I do dearly hope," said Shaz, pulling a face, "but rather, has only realised this now that he has no one to boss around."

Jude's eyes brightened at the idea. "Oh, that must be it."

"Makes perfect sense," said Tom, "if he's not gay."

Wanted to storm away but by that point had got enough cocktails in me that would have toppled over. Did not like to think of Mark thinking of me as platonic little sister only and not as woman that he might want to get off with again someday. I mean, had had own thought about Mark thinking of me as sister, but for friends to think same was unconscionable.

"Oh!" said Jude; hoped this signalled a change in subject, but hopes were dashed: "That reminds me. You'll never guess who I saw!" Without missing a beat, she added in a stage whisper, "_Rebecca_."

"Oh, _really_?" asked Shaz—was way too enthused for my liking. "And how is she? Twenty stone, I hope? Spots all over face? Hair unaccountably falling out?" Suddenly felt great wave of love for Shaz.

"No, no, she looks great, _really_ great," said Jude, totally missing a.) Shaz's sarcasm and b.) all sense of sisterhood. "She tried to pretend she didn't see me, but there came a point where she couldn't avoid it anymore."

"What happened then?"

Jude said, "Oh, she wanted to know how 'the gang' was doing." Shaz snorted a laugh. "I told her nothing much, except that Bridget was in New York with Mark."

Shaz really howled at that. "So what'd she say?"

"She turned fuchsia, muttered something about you never giving up on a lost cause, then stormed away."

"Serves her right," declared Shaz. Tom nodded.

"Can we please talk about something else?" I blurted all of a sudden. It was bad enough Rebecca was trying to suck up to Jude—I just did not want to mentally relive that whole fiasco. Looked up from my drink to see them all staring at self as if were holding Rebecca hostage at knifepoint.

"Sure," said Shaz, in manner of calming a terrorist. "Fine."

After that, had more to drink and things got blurry. Got self home in one piece with, I hope, no handing out of addresses or phone numbers to random hot young whippersnappers, or further calls to Mark Darcy. (Still want to know what said to him.)

Hm. Well, suppose since not feeling like death any longer, should take care of errands and similar.

_5.30 pm._ Have been thinking of what Shaz said last night, about the response Rebecca (jellyfishing cow) had to the deliberately misleading 'Bridget's in New York with Mark' from Jude. Did Rebecca say that, thinking am desperately throwing self at Mark because she knows he doesn't care for me that way?

Ugh. Should not care what others think, particularly Rebecca, but do not wish for anyone to think am so desperate as to go after man who is repulsed by self sexually… and everyone knows it.

And am having sedate birthday brunch with said man tomorrow.

_5.45 pm._ Shit. Telephone just rang. Was Mum.

"Darling, where are you?" With all that's gone on, had totally forgotten they were in London and was meeting them for birthday dinner. Though suppose should be grateful that am having three celebratory days. One for each decade completed? (Would be only perk to ageing.)

Sunday, 21 March

_9st (clearly have been celebrating); calories: 2050 (is birthday after all); alcohol units: 5 (natural and just); age: irrelevant_

_4 pm._ Just back from brunch with Mark Darcy. Was a v. nice, fun time. Brought me present (gorgeous, delicate silver bracelet that hope do not lose within first week—is from Tiffany's!) and paid for brunch, which was v. posh champagne cocktail to-do.

Oddly… sort of felt like a date.

_5.25 pm._ Spirits brightened. Just got phone call from Jamie, wishing self happy birthday. Sometimes wish he was not so far away, or that he did not have mad girlfriend.


	4. Chapter 4: April Fool

**If—**

By S. Faith, © 2013  
Words: 53,952 (in 10 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.  
Because I realized I missed saying so before: Many thanks to my Marcie, without whom I could probably never pull off a fic that isn't completely fraught with continuity errors, etc. Also, portions of this chapter were inspired by a friend and co-worker of mine. Though he will never see this, much love to him.

* * *

**Chapter 4: April Fool**

Thursday, 1 April

_9st (ugh ugh ugh); calories: 1850 (acceptable, though must do better); alcohol units: 3 (angelic); desire to be mother: deep conflict; desire to throttle pranksters: high_

_10 am._ Having lunch with Jude today. Have not seen since dinner almost two weeks ago. V. excited—she knows sex of baby now!

_1.30 pm._ Jude came up to me, radiant (and, as could not help noticing, starting to look a bit prominent in belly given her thin frame), and gave self a big hug. "Oh, Bridge!" she said. "You'll never guess!"

"What?" I asked as we took our seats. "_What?!_"

"It's a boy!" she said. "And a girl!"

Nearly fell down in shock. Twins?! Hands flew to mouth. "Oh my God!"

"I know! Isn't it incredible?"

"It is! It is!" I said, though thought that two babies at once sounded a bit of a nightmare.

Jude had weird look on face, and then suddenly realised why: she was trying to hold in big laugh. "Sorry, Bridge, couldn't resist."

"What?"

"Bridge, what's today, and is it midday yet?"

Thought about which day it was and wanted to throw glass of wine at Jude but thought v. uncharitable thing to do to pregnant woman who can't drink, even though had just pulled practical joke on self. "So what is it, then? Boy or girl?"

Jude got excited again, more genuinely. "Boy! It's a boy!"

We squealed together and toasted (me: bloody Mary; Jude: straight orange juice), then had lovely lunch with Jude. Really am so v. happy for her, and for Richard, who really has come so far since his vile days. Now am back at work and have meeting during which do desperately hope am not going to be sacked.

_2.15 pm._ Really not funny telling me as April Fool lark that have been promoted to new prestigious project. Cruellest part is that mentioned was about Jane Austen. Is well after noon. Not funny at all.

_3 pm._ Really going all out with the joke here. Just had Patchouli come up babbling congrats in her usual incoherent way.

_4.10 pm._ Oh my God. Grant E Pike just came to desk and leaned on corner. Was smiling in almost sympathetic way, which immediately raised hackles.

"Bridget, I'm sorry," he said. _You should be_, I thought in manner of Mark Darcy, but then he went on. "I've only just realised what today is, and have put two and two together about your less-than-enthusiastic response earlier. I should have known something was not quite right when you weren't excited about the Austen job."

Took a moment to filter through what he was saying. Think jaw dropped open at realisation. "Oh, oh, marvellous," I gibbered, then smiled, got all teary and thanked him properly. He just chuckled and said he was glad he was right.

Moment he stepped back into his office I grabbed my mobile and rang up the one person thought would be most impressed by this coup.

"Mark Darcy," he said. Is such habit for him to answer in this way for any call. As if he did not know it was my number incoming.

"Mark!" I said, trying to rein in my excitement. "You will never believe what happened!" Then I told him.

He was dead silent for a few seconds. Expected enthusiasm and congratulations. Instead, he said in a very stern voice, "Bridget, it's a bit late in the day for a prank, isn't it?"

Was torn between laughing (as seemed he had fallen for the same line of thinking that I had) and wanting to shout at him (did he not think self capable of snagging such a promotion?). Ultimately just said in rather deflated tone, "I'm serious."

More silence, then heard him laugh. "I'm sorry; I can't keep up the pretence of teasing you, darling," he said. ('Darling' again, hm.) "Congratulations—you've earned it. Let me take you out to celebrate."

Felt a bit rankled at this; why does Mark always want to take me out? Am modern woman; can take out friends, male or female. "No," I said sharply.

"No?" he echoed, sounding hurt.

Felt horrible; realised in retrospect how it sounded, and hate hurting his feelings. "I mean, why should _you_ take me out? You always pay. Let me take you out."

Yet more silence; grand to think that self had managed to render the great orator Mark Darcy speechless. "All right," he said tentatively.

Think may have broken Mark Darcy's brain. Ha.

_10.45 pm._ Chose the most posh restaurant could think of as recommended by Jude once, as really wanted to splash out on new promotion (in retrospect, should have rung up Shaz, Jude, Tom, but they would have just brought their men and it would have been awkward as only had Mark as platonic friend… plus—and not to sound cheap—would have been far too bloody expensive, even for promotion splash-out treat). Since do not have functional vehicle of own, Mark was kind enough to pick me up; did not want to have to deal with frustration of taxi, Tube or similar threatening high spirits.

Mark knew just where to go, but as soon as saw name in print—_La Poule au Pot_—brain immediately went to thoughts of Pol Pot and hoped choice of restaurant was not a bad omen. Then went inside and felt a bit aghast at sight: was gorgeous, romantic… and quite wrong for dinner with platonic friend. If said ambience bothered him, though, he didn't let it show. "Are you sure?" he asked about paying, about a million times. Told him yes, absolutely, to just enjoy it and shut up. (Well, did not put it quite so crassly.)

Had lavish, delicious dinner (decided to have cheese quiche; Mark had escargot and compelled me to taste despite obvious disgust on my part) and the best wine have had in ages (though did not overdo, v. proud of self). Could not help thinking Mark looked so nervous entire time. Can't believe he was so shaken just by being forced into non-traditional gender role. Non-traditional for his Tory leanings, I mean.

"Mark," I said at last, "you don't have to worry. If I want to treat my friends once in a while, I can afford to! It's a matter of supreme indifference that I, as a woman, am buying dinner for you, a man. This isn't the 1950s."

Can't say that he seemed particularly reassured, but he at least was a bit less unsettled through the end of dinner and then dessert, as we talked about my new project (admittedly have v. few details at present) as well as Mark's work. Dessert of _mousse au chocolat_ produced another round of strangely sentimental looks on his part in my general direction; perhaps was sympathetic to the stone of weight self was likely to have put on that night.

When bill was brought waiter automatically gave it to Mark (grr) so had to snatch it away indignantly to make displeasure known. Not before Mark had seen total, though. Looked to me with 'are you sure you want to murder that kitten' look in eyes, but instead of answering looked down to ticket.

Must admit nearly squealing when looked at bill, as was higher than was used to seeing for dinner for two, but was v. g. meal and well worth bringing Mark Darcy up short with gender-role-reversal. However, assumed placid expression on features and pulled out card for payment, offering smile to Mark.

As we walked back to car, he had his hands shoved in his trouser pockets and stared down at his feet. "Thank you again," he said quietly. "That was very good."

"My pleasure," I said gaily.

When he was still so silent driving me home, had to threaten him with a bit of a tickle if he didn't smile a bit; surely he wasn't still in mortal horror over not paying the bill for us? "Bridget, do _not_ even think about it," he said in that threatening tone that always strengthened my resolve to disobey.

As we came to the light (red, obvs.), reached over to him to catch him under the arm with a, "Too late!" and a little tickle.

He jerked sideways as if were poking him with a cattle prod. "Bridget!"

"Sorry," I said. Did not realise was quite so sensitive to tickling. "You're just so… _sombre_, when we're celebrating my promotion."

He sighed. "I'm sorry. Really. I am so very happy for you, truly."

"You're not going to hold a grudge that I paid for dinner, are you?"

He chuckled a little. "Oh, no. I'm not." He said nothing more on the subject, opting instead to talk about trivial matters in the news until we got to my building.

"I'll talk to you soon," he said as he got the door for me (habit that he will never be able to break). Was cue that night was at end. Gave him little hug then came upstairs.

Oh, telephone. (Ooh! Have just noticed seven answerphone messages. _Seven!_)

_11.15 pm._ Oh, God. Feel like complete jerk. Telephone was Shaz to say hello. Mentioned where we went to dinner, and she asked, "Ooooh? Are you getting back together?"

"What?" I asked, stunned. "No, why?"

Long silence. "Well, if memory serves me right that's where you went to reconcile after rabbit incident."

Had been so suffused with love (and yes, lust) at the time those years ago, after realising boyfriend did not have boyfriend, that had completely forgotten all details about where we had actually gone for supper. Knew it had seemed vaguely familiar. No wonder Mark had been so obviously discomfited. Was a living reminder of a time he does not want to be reminded of. Best not to bring it up and prolong difficulty.

_11.25 pm._ Seven answerphone messages were all from friends being April Fool's Day jerks. In summary:

"Bridget! I've just won the lottery!" (Tom.)

"I'm pregnant!" (Shaz, who then snorted with laughter, so know she is not serious.)

"Bridget! I've rung to offer you a two book deal!" (Geoffrey Alconbury, in sad attempt to disguise voice. Think he forgot am in television now.)

"I'm buying you a Lamborghini!" (Tom again. I mean, _really_.)

"Marry me, Jones!" (Daniel, drunk. Never, no, ugh.)

"I have a terrible secret to confess: I'm in love with your mum!" (Michael, which is less convincing when punctuated by uncontrollable tittering.)

"Bridge! Holiday at my parents' country cottage! Details soon!" (Jude. As if she hadn't just tried the twins joke that morning.)

Sunday, 4 April

_9st 2 (this cannot be allowed to persist); calories: 1950 (in manner of throwback gender-roles-era); alcohol units: 0 (angelic); seaside holiday fantasies: innumerable_

_3 pm._ It was not a joke, a prank or similar. Jude really has use of parents' vacation cottage (which probably five times size of my flat) for whole of month of June! Will be like _Enchanted April_, except not April but June, and not Italy but Plymouth. Come to think of it, Plymouth is strange place to have cottage, but will be v. low-cost seaside holiday! Not that need to economise as much as used to. Still, is good to save like grasshopper. Or was that ant?

Anyway, have told her yes, though probably cannot spend whole of June there due to deadlines at work relating to programmes (Austen thing on top of other duties!). Will talk to Grant E Pike; maybe can bring laptop and work remotely for part of time. Love the lovely technology!

_3.30 pm._ Mother has just phoned and reminded me (in guilt-laden way, since I was not there) that it was Easter. Hurrah! This means tomorrow is holiday.

Monday, 5 April

_9st 1 (small reprieve); calories: 1800 (must have beach body by June); alcohol units: 0 (again, freakishly angelic, but is Easter Monday); seaside holiday fantasies: continued_

_9 am._ Well, bollocks. Have emailed Grant from home and says while working remotely might be an option, not for a whole month.

_9.05 am._ Oh! He followed up with suggestion of just having a bona fide holiday for two weeks at the end of June, after work's done on the Austen project. Hurrah!

_10 am._ Jude just rang to ask about dinner tomorrow night with them (presumably, her and Richard). Said yes. Told her about having two week holiday at the house, and was still v. excited.

Then had a thought, re: Mark Darcy and his lonely summer hols spent at his house. "Jude," I said. "Can I ask Mark, too?"

She raised a brow. (Yes, was on phone, but swear could hear it rise.)

"As a friend, durr," I added quickly.

"I was thinking of asking him anyway but wasn't sure how you'd feel about it."

"We spent two weeks alone together in the same flat," I reminded. "Why would it bug me?"

So should give Mark a call to ask. Though holiday is not until June, he might surprise everyone by announcing a trip around the world in a balloon or similar.

_10.25 am._ First question out of Mark's mouth: "A holiday in Plymouth? Why?"

Didn't have to sound so incredulous. "Because that's where Jude's parents have a summer cottage, and it's free for the whole of the month of June."

A thoughtful silence, then, "Who else will be there?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said, trying to effect a light tone, but suddenly horrified that Jude would have moment of durr and ask Rebecca out of habit. Surely she would not! "Besides Richard and Jude? Shaz and maybe Tom. And me, of course."

"Of course," he said with a little chuckle. "Well, I'll say 'yes'. It'll be nice to get away."

So will tell Jude and start planning for self.

_10.55 am._ Rang up Jude to say Mark would be coming. Told her we could talk more about it tomorrow night. Exciting!

Tuesday, 6 April

_9st 1 (at least am holding steady); calories: 2100 (couldn't help self); alcohol units: 4-6 (ditto); obsessive tendencies: ever-present_

_3 pm._ Day cannot end soon enough. Grant has just announced new intern, probably is young uni student as usual. Realise with sense of horror that self could be this person's mother. Okay, would have poss. been prepubescent pregnancy on self's part, but still.

_3.10 pm._ Have just realised that announcement worded in such a way that do not know if intern is male or female. Name is Taylor, so am not assured in either direction.

_3.30 pm._ Do not know if prefer idea of Taylor being male or female. If is male and is young and cute then may have reluctant and guilt-inducing Prince William-esque thoughts about him. If is female and is young and cute, will feel like washed-up, has-been old woman of hills.

_4.35 pm._ Must stop obsessing about this at once. Whichever of the two Taylor is, am sure he or she is more than capable of doing job, else would not have been chosen as new intern.

_5.10 pm._ En route to restaurant for dinner. Is a bit early yet but will take this long for taxi to get through traffic.

_6.25 pm._ Point made re: traffic. Have only just arrived and seated waiting for Jude. Should be here momentarily. Am having pre-dinner wine to calm nerves.

_7.30 pm._ V. g. wine and dinner, though ohhhh. Am v. foolish.

Wednesday, 7 April

_9st (better); calories: 1800 (had to atone for yesterday); alcohol units: 0 (ditto); IQ: not as high had hoped, probably; fantasies about breaking into personnel files: more than is healthy_

_8.30 am._ Woke in state of disorientation about where self was, then remembered it was at Mark Darcy's house. Scarfing down some breakfast before going to work. Mark already gone. Gah. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

_9.45 am. At desk, at work._ Just out of meeting. Work always so fantastic at getting in way of everything.

Last night dinner was great, except was great bundle of confusion as night wore on. Kept referring to seaside holiday; Jude looked at me as if were mad. Finally after so much back and forth, she said, "Bridge. Where on earth did you think I said my parents' cottage is, again?"

Felt wash of cold over skin. What had kitten-heel stepped into now? "Plymouth."

Jude looked to her husband and together they looked at me. Instead of expected burst of laughter, they looked at me as if were dim-witted child. "Oh, Bridge. Not Plymouth. Provence."

Reeled. The south of France! Will be like _A Year in Provence_, except is not year, but month. Rather, fortnight.

We talked a bit, drank a bit more, and as we split for the night became overcome (okay, obsessed) with idea that I had grievously misled Mark Darcy about the holiday, so instead of ringing him up I went directly to his house. Bad idea, as was quite pissed at that point.

When door opened, felt even worse for mishearing / not paying attention when Jude was talking of holiday, plus was v. g. to see him, though it had only been since Thursday. So threw arms around him affectionately when saying hello.

"Why don't you come in," he said quietly. Realise now he must have been really offended. Told him that holiday was not in Plymouth but south of France.

"How did you confuse the two?" he asked, a bit of a wry smile as he did.

"Sorry," I said.

"Sorry? Sorry for what? Telling me that the holiday is somewhere even better than before?" I wanted to reply but didn't know what to say exactly—was actually more sorry for being constant fool. "Come on, Bridget. You should just stay here. I don't trust you'll get home safely."

So he took me 'round the waist and helped me go upstairs. Didn't manage to even wash face or brush teeth before falling asleep (in all truth, probably closer to passing out). When woke this morning found self had been tucked in with blanket in manner of sweet, innocent sleeping child, though am neither sweet nor innocent. (Okay. Maybe a bit sweet.) Went downstairs to find Mark had already gone, but had left some breakfast and coffee for me with little note reminding where pain pills were. V. kind of him.

Of course, as had to go home to get washed up and change of clothes, was late getting in, but that doesn't matter as much as it used to. Though have missed introductions of new intern to office in general.

_11.30 am._ Have just seen new intern. Still cannot tell if is girl or boy. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but will make for awkward first conversation. Oh. Perhaps will hover outside the loos for a while to see which one intern goes into.

Oh. Perhaps will ring up friends to see what they think.

_12.15 pm._ Decided to ring up Mark Darcy first, since know he regularly takes a break to eat from noon for about an hour.

"How did you sleep?" he asked straight away. "Headache gone?"

"Yes, yes, it's fine," I said. "Have a deep philosophical question for you."

"Oh, really?" Honestly, he did not have to sound so surprised.

"Yes," I said, then proceeded to explain the dilemma.

"Why don't you just ask one of your co-workers," he said after a thoughtful pause, "or your boss?"

"Because I don't want them to know I don't know."

"Well, then, ask them what you missed before you came in. Surely one of them will use a pronoun that will suggest the gender, either way."

Bloody genius. Will try at soonest.

_12.30 pm._ Grrr. Have done as Mark suggested. Here is conversation.

Me: "What did I miss before I came in?"

Patchouli: "Oh, not much. Oh, right. Grant introduced us all to the new intern, went from desk to desk. It'll be nice working with one that isn't completely incompetent, for a change."

So not a single pronoun to indicate one way or another, and can't go 'round asking again what I missed this morning, because then everyone will think am total fuckup.

_12.35 pm._ Panicked phone call to Mark. "It didn't work."

"Pardon? What are you talking about?"

"Mark," I said in a dangerous tone. "The _intern_."

"Right. Well, why not ask your boss to make that introduction?"

Seems v. obvious now. Realise that in making effort not to look stupid to co-workers, am making self look like complete dolt to Mark Darcy.

So now am waiting for Grant E Pike to return from lunch.

1.10 pm. Grrr. Grrrrrr. GRRRRRR.

Me: "Where's the new intern, Taylor? I—I mean, _we_ weren't introduced."

Grant (rifling through papers at desk, is v. distracted): "Ah, Taylor. Only working mornings. Won't be in again until tomorrow."

_1.15 pm._ Have had cheering thought. Maybe no one else can tell, either. (Cheering in that do not feel quite so stupid.) Have resolved to not think about it too much more today, as can do nothing about it.

_5.30 pm._ Have now spent day in v. sad manner, imagining self nonchalantly entering office where personnel files are kept to break into file cabinet and get info on Taylor, but is obsessive and wrong, and besides, do not know Taylor's full name.

_5.45 pm._ Maybe will ask Mark Darcy to have lunch with self tomorrow, to see if he can tell one way or the other.

Thursday, 8 April

_9st 2 (deserved as am horrible human being, but how, overnight?); calories: 2250 (consolatory); alcohol units: 2 (reasonable)_

_1.30 pm._ Just back from lunch with Mark. Had no direct communication with Taylor all morning (voice is not too high or too low, so no clue there), so was not any closer to solving mystery. As Mark was coming in, Taylor was preparing to leave; observed from short distance them exchanging small talk, and watched as Mark smiled and said goodbye. As soon as Taylor went into the lift, gesticulated wildly to call Mark to desk.

"So?" I asked.

"'So' what?"

"What's the verdict?"

He blinked in confusion, then his brows went up as he took my meaning. "Oh, was that Taylor?" I nodded. "Er… if I had to bet money on it, I'd lean toward male, but I really don't know for sure."

Wanted to bang forehead on desk. "What makes you lean towards male?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Mentioned having plans with Robin this afternoon. Also said that they were long term."

Gah! "But Robin can be a boy's name too. Or maybe they are…" My voice dropped down. "…both girls. Or both boys."

Mark looked at me, obviously perplexed. "I just don't know."

At least, though, am not totally stupid, if Mark can't tell either.

_3 pm._ Oh God. Have just been called into Grant's office.

_3.10 pm._ Went in panicking. Almost as hard at times to read Grant's expression as it is to read Mark's. This was one of those times. He formed his fingers into a steeple shape and looked at me with a penetrating gaze (also, but not quite as much, like Mark). "Bridget, can I ask you something?"

"Yes, sure, what is it?" I asked, stomach turning in knots.

"Is something the matter that you're avoiding Taylor?"

"I am not avoiding—" Him? Her? GAH. "_Taylor_."

"Ah," he said coolly. "I know what's wrong here."

Wondered if it was that obvious. "You do?"

"Yes," he said. "You missed introductions yesterday morning, and for some strange reason you're feeling shy."

Did not know exactly what he meant by that, but said, "Yes. That's it exactly. Can you introduce me properly tomorrow morning?"

He said that he would, so hoping the confusion will be cleared up.

_7 pm._ Really hoping Grant is not absent tomorrow.

_9.30 pm._ Have just been perusing article online discussing the fluidity of gender. Apparently not as binary as once thought, more than just 'he' and 'she,' and way beyond genitalia. Not pissed enough to wrap brain around this concept.

_10.05 pm._ Is fine. Is totally fine. Will just follow Grant's lead and refer to Taylor in whichever pronoun is preferred. Am modern woman and can adapt to changing paradigms.

Friday, 9 April

_9st 1 (one has fled in shock); calories: 1800 (anarchy); alcohol units: 6 (natural and just)_

_10.30 am._ Well, have had formal introduction with Taylor. Grant no help as every sentence of his managed to avoid pronoun. Could feel frustration building until finally I erupted with uncouth, "Taylor, for the love of God, tell me: do you prefer 'he' or 'she'?"

Rather than the sock to the face that was expecting, Taylor blinked, smiled, then chuckled. "That's really, _really_ sensitive of you." Pause. Thought I saw a tear in eye. "If you don't mind, I'd prefer 'she'."

_Aha!_ I thought. _Hahahaha!_ But then wondered about the 'sensitive' comment, and the teary eye. "Why would I mind?"

"Well," she (she!) said. "No one's ever asked me before."

Didn't know what that meant, but didn't press it. With a few minutes Taylor left to return to her duties. Grant sank down in his chair, sighing heavily.

"Thank God and all the angels above for your frankness, Bridget," he said.

"What? Why?" I asked.

"Because the lot of us have been dancing around the pronoun issue for three days, and no one knew quite how to broach the subject because we didn't know," he said. "The scant info I got from Human Resources also seemed strangely devoid of references."

Utterly flabbergasted. But mostly surprised: I had been _right_!

_11.45 am._ Stunned. Taylor came to my desk on her way out for the day, and asked if she could have a word in private, outside. Of course agreed as it meant stepping away from desk to go outside for some air. (Old days, would have had fag. In post-conversation retrospect, think might have taken one, if one had been offered.)

Once out of doors in sunlight, now that was up close could see more feminine features, etc.; seemed totally obvious now. "You know," she said, "I'm not completely oblivious."

Felt heart sink, but tried to play stupid. "About what?"

Small grin made self feel better. "I had a feeling you asked the question everyone else wanted the answer to."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I did." After a beat, I added, "Though I didn't quite understand your response."

Taylor gave me odd look. "How old do you think I am?"

Gah. Hate being made to feel like ancient crone. "Twenty-three?"

A chuckle. "You flatter me. Twenty-six."

"Oh," I said. "Our interns are usually a bit younger."

"My gap year turned into several." Taylor eyed me, then said, "For twenty-four of those years I went by 'he.'"

Took a moment to sink in, then found self saying a rather stupid, "Oh."

Turned out that we were first non-uni group of people she had met since embracing her she-ness and was deeply touched to be… well, if not exactly easily identifiable as a 'she', that not so obviously a 'he.' "It may seem strange for you to hear," she said, "but it was a big leap forward for me."

Couldn't help but smile, even if had probably handled situation in totally incorrect and fucked-up manner. Was not sure why she was telling me all this, so I asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know, exactly. I thought if you were bold enough to ask what my preference was, that you'd probably not be too fussed by my explanation."

Felt proud of self for projecting obviously nurturing aura; felt less like ancient crone and more like wise woman of tribe. Got feeling Taylor wanted v. much to have fag, though, so said goodbye and pardoned self to come back inside.

"By the way," Taylor said before I'd got two or three steps away, "thanks for not flipping out like my mum did."

Beamed with pride, then came back in. Resisted urge to ring up friends to brag about state of enlightenment had evidently achieved. Is not v. enlightened to do so.

_12.10 pm._ Though does that mean she thinks of me as being as old as her mum? Hm.

_5.30 pm._ Got home from work in time to find home telephone ringing. It was Mark Darcy.

"Oh, hello," he said, obvious surprise in his tone. "Wasn't actually expecting you'd be home."

"Left work a bit early," I said. Curious; why did he not want to talk directly to me? "What's up?"

"I, uh, wanted to find out if you ever, you know, found out about your intern."

Chuckled and figured this information would blow his Tory mind. "Oh, yes," I said, then explained.

He said nothing for many moments. "Well," he said in an unflustered tone. "I have to admit I did not see that one coming."

_9.45 pm._ Still wondering why Mark Darcy was calling me but expecting to get my answerphone. V. curious.


	5. Chapter 5: An Austenian Proposal

**If—**

By S. Faith, © 2013  
Words: 53,952 (in 10 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 5: An Austenian Proposal**

Friday, 24 April

_9st 2 (feel as if on roller coaster, ugh); calories: 2000 (approx.); alcohol units: 2 at dinner, 2 at home (justifiable); no. of days celibate: too many_

_6 pm._ Have been v. busy with Austen project work, but now done with legwork. Intend on running work done to date past Mark Darcy (after dinner tonight at his house) to see if subject holds interest even for a man who goes catatonic after the third hour of the BBC _Pride and Prejudice_ mini.

_7.30 pm._ Oh dear. Perhaps should not have sprung my plan on Mark before dinner was even over. He gave me an icy look. "Had intended on watching the football," he said. "Very important game."

Have habit, you see, of watching game together after dinner is over, but only on condition that cannot pester him with questions—or even talk, really—while the ball is in play. "But it's _really_ important," I said desperately. "If what I have is not going to work I'll have tons of research to do over the weekend and I'm making a huge presentation on Monday morning."

He pursed his lips.

"It shouldn't take long at all," I added in a brightly encouraging tone; didn't know if it was strictly true, but really needed his help. "Then we can watch the rest of the game and have dessert."

His jaw tensed, relaxed, and then he sighed. "Okay," he said. "Fine."

Beamed a smile at him. "Great!"

Now we are finished eating, and he has gone off to get another bottle of wine. Will take notes while presenting.

_7.32 pm._ Began explaining project, then went to make notes when Mark asked, "What are you writing?"

"Oh," I said, feeling skin flush a bit. "I have to take notes on your responses." Also not sure if strictly true, but if he has a particularly good one, must make sure to note it.

Right. On with the presentation, such as it is.

_7.40 pm._ Described concept of show to Mark—on her life and novels—only to get immediate and sharp response: "Hasn't that already been done before?"

Grr. Explained that while such a programme might have been done in the past, new research and discoveries about life in the area during her lifetime mean we can speculate a bit more on any blank spots, etc. etc.

"Okay," he said, looking dubious. He sat back and touched his chin thoughtfully with that penetrating gaze he has. Suddenly felt like was on trial.

_7.46 pm. _Got through the bits about the juvenilia and plays and he interrupted again wanting to know when the good stuff was coming. Grr. Though must remember: I did ask.

_7.49 pm._ Mark yawned just as was describing move to Bath. Fear the likes of Mark Darcy will never be target audience; though still making notes in notebook about the things he dislikes or finds dull to spark them up a bit.

_8.10 pm._ Done speaking. Waited expectantly for final commentary. He said nothing at first. Widened my eyes, rolled hand in 'on with it, then' gesture, in order to prompt without words.

"Well, I think it's very good," he said. "Thorough and informative."

"But would you watch it?"

His response requires that diary be set down.

_11.45 pm. My flat._ Oh God.

At my question, he smirked and leaned back on the sofa. "I suppose I would if you narrated on screen dressed in a Regency gown."

Pursed lips then reached over for a pillow with the intent of hitting him with it, but he caught it and swung at me with it. Had just enough time to reach for another and we started batting pillows at each other until I disarmed him.

He lunged forward after my pillow, but managed to evade him, at least until he had clasped my wrists. Realised then, at roughly same time as he did, that he was practically on top of me—and we were both panting for air—with my hands pinned down next to my head. We backed away from one another quickly and in total embarrassment.

"Sorry about that," he said, not looking at me. "Kind of got out of hand there."

"It's all right," I murmured.

After this, thought it best to gather up things and go home. Everything had gone all weird and silent. He offered to drive me back to my flat, and only accepted because did not want to wait awkwardly around for minicab.

So frustrating, being so close, wanting to kiss him and not being able to. Almost too much to bear, both proximity and weight deliciously heavy against self… but even worse is knowing had put him in such an uncomfortable position.

Am sure things will be okay. Wish could just get over him, already. Would make things like dating other men much easier.

_Later._ Oh God. Tonight sharply underscores that have not had sex in… oh God, not at all this year. Oh God, _oh God_. Have turned into unwilling celibate.

Sunday, 26 April

_8st 13 (likely due to shock of realisation am a celibate); calories: 2250; alcohol units: 5 (why not; am a celibate)_

_10 am._ Have had phone message from Mark Darcy. "Hi, Bridget." Voice a bit tight and odd. "Sorry about Friday night. No h…" Cough/choke/similar. Voice then more normal. "…hard feelings, I hope. Anyway. The football's on tonight so if you can stand listening to me shouting at the telly for a few hours, you're welcome over for dinner. Talk to you later. Goodbye."

Would like to have dinner to make sure things are really okay, though afraid sight of sofa (scene of the crime, so to speak) might dredge up longings again.

_12 noon._ Have just had coffee and a late breakfast/early lunch and have decided to set aside my discomfort to be good friend to Mark. Will ring him up and have dinner with him at his house.

_12.10 pm._ Was v. glad to hear from me; could hear the smile in his voice. Asked if I should bring anything.

"No, that's all right," he said. "Just plan on being here about six."

Think will stop by patisserie, though, and bring something yummy for dessert.

_4.45 pm._ Have got small lemon cake, which is one of Mark's favourite flavours. Feel as if owe him apology, too.

_4.55 pm._ Was about to leave for Mark's when remembered the football would be on, so grabbed new self-help book that got for birthday from Shazzer (that have not yet cracked open) to have something to read if got bored. After all, Mark barely acknowledges presence of self when he's engrossed in match.

_10.35 pm. Mark's house._ Arrived to house to find dinner not quite ready. Was v. confused until Mark smirked and said, "I gave it extra time knowing you'd be late." He took the patisserie box with a thank you, then caught a glimpse of my book and groaned.

"What?" I asked.

He pointed to my book. "_Understanding the Inferior Sex: A Guide to Men_?" he asked.

"What of it?"

"Bridget, it's misandrist."

"What?"

He sighed. "It's sexist and insulting."

"It's meant to be humorous and tongue-in-cheek," I asserted, though was not entirely sure it was. The drawing on the cover certainly seemed satirical.

He merely gave me a sidelong glance before shaking his head and laughing a little. "Come on, let's eat."

Surprised me by serving bangers and mash and to drink, bottles of bitter, which isn't usually my alcohol of choice but served to reinforce the pub atmosphere there in the sitting room (yes, shocking: we had dinner in front of the telly). Was v. g. bitter, anyway. As bitters go.

Match was noisy and so was Mark, but it was nice to see him so happy and animated, particularly as his team was doing v. well. He's never so unrestrained as when a match is on. In fact, he dripped mash on his collar and didn't wipe it immediately off. Unheard of. Apparently men really do have football instead of feelings.

When was done eating, took up reading my book and sipping at bottle. Did so for quite a long while. Is v. interesting read—not nearly as sexist and insulting as Mark thought title suggested. In fact, found self proved right when, after reading assertion that men can't multitask, tried to ask Mark what he thought… and found him unable to focus long enough to answer question.

After game, when told him he had more than proved point of book, he retorted, "You're just the same when you watch your _Pride and Prejudice_ mini."

"I am not," I bristled. "I make shopping lists, fold laundry, cook dinner…"

He pursed his lips. "There's a difference. You've seen it a million times before."

The highlights of the match came on just then, and just like that his attention was fixed onto the screen, rather proving his assertion re: having seen it before as totally wrong.

"Ooh, it's Becks," I said as David Beckham came up on the screen, in action on the pitch. Camera on backside, etc. etc. I pointed. "I'll never tire seeing _that_."

"What?" he said, his attention still fixed.

"I said… I'll never tire of seeing—oh, never mind. You're not listening."

"I am," he said, looking at me at last.

"What did I say, then?"

He was silent, then: "Let's have dessert."

Agreed, but did not relent. "You _weren't_ listening, then."

"Bridget, would you please drop it," he said. "I was. Commentary on Beckham's backside is not my idea of a conversation worth having."

Was my turn to be stunned—did it really bother him that much?—but covered up my surprise with, "I suppose I'd be surprised if you did." After that went to get the cake and some dessert wine.

Guess that Mark had had a lot more beer than I had, for he seemed more than a bit pissed… and far more thoughtful and morose than usual. He drank the wine, ate the cake, and said something as he studied his wineglass that shocked self beyond the pale:

"Maybe… if we don't each find someone within the next three years or so… maybe we should just get married. Then we don't have to worry about it anymore."

"What?" was all could think to say in response.

"You know, your mother bothering you, mine bothering me… I'm tired of it all. Tired of looking. And I think we could stand each other on a daily basis."

Was not sure how I should feel about this. Did not say anything. Left soon afterwards, still contemplating his proposal of sorts. Should I be offended or not that he's willing to 'settle' for a friend, for me, in platonic, business-like arrangement?

Wednesday, 29 April

_8st 12 (good, but at high cost); calories: 1850; alcohol units: 2 (not for lack of trying); no. of feelings of tragic spinsterhood as fatal condition: v. great sum_

_10.30 am._ Have had several discussions over last few days with Urban Family re: Mark Darcy's strange proposal from Sunday. General consensus is that it is a bit odd but not unheard of, especially when feeling particularly sad and lonely (and pissed, presumably), to try to find someone with which to strike up such a bargain. "I remember doing that myself," said Shaz drolly, last night as we were out for drinks. "A guy I went to uni with and I said that if we weren't married by twenty-five, we'd marry each other. Can't imagine having actually gone through with it, considering he turned out to be completely mental. Like, _murderer_ mental."

Jude had agreed with a nod of the head. "Said the same to another friend, only we had said thirty-five."

"Lucky you," Shaz had retorted with a wink.

Starting to think am only straight woman who has not made similar sort of bargain with male friend. Think is hideous, wrong, out-dated, arranged-marriage-style concept. Though traitorous part of self thinks would be really nice to have something as certain as that, with a person one could stand, as a fall-back position.

_11.25 am_. Have just had call from Mark Darcy. Apologetic as have ever heard him. "So sorry about Sunday night. Christ. I invite you over to make up for horrendous behaviour and end up making matters worse."

"It's okay," I said tenderly. "It was obvious you were pissed. I mean, you never would have suggested anything as absurd as us getting married if you'd been sober."

He didn't really reply to that, only said very brusquely that he had to go.

Hm. Would have thought that would have made him feel better. Probably just had to go back into court or something.

_7.15 pm._ Home at last. Struck by v. bad (though faint) smell in flat. Is probably nothing. Mum has not given me any fillet steaks recently. Perhaps should check carrier bags, though, just to be sure.

_7.45 pm_. Cannot find source of smell. Will just open window to air out flat, though not entirely sure smell of London air in general is a better choice.

_8.10 pm._ Dinner of mini pizzas and the dregs of a box wine while watching crap telly. Feeling a bit sad now thinking of Mark's rescinded arranged marriage offer. Am tragic, celibate singleton.

Saturday, 1 May

_8st 12 (holding steady as if by miracle or force-field); calories: 2000; alcohol units: 4; mood: improving_

_10.30 am._ Longer-than-usual lie in. Was woken by telephone ringing. Answered in hopes was maybe Mark Darcy (he has been curiously silent) only to find it was my mother.

"Darling!" she said. "Why are you not already on your way? You promised to come after missing Easter."

Had forgotten all about this… well, whatever it is… this weekend with parents (and presumably whole village). So now must rush for train to Grafton Underwood. Dad says will pick me up at station.

_8 pm._ Surprised to find not Dad but Mark Darcy come to fetch me at station. He looked shy and still apologetic even though had already apologised. "Your father was not up to driving," he said. "So I offered to come."

"I didn't know you would be here," I said, wondering why he hadn't offered to take me to Grafton Underwood.

"I didn't either. I came up on Thursday for a little time away, got roped into going." He grinned. "Come on. You look like you could use a cocktail."

We arrived—together, of course—to the Alconbury abode to instantly hear Mark's (clearly pissed) father comment, "Don't know why those two just don't get married and have some kids, already." Indeed, felt acute need for cocktail. Think his mother tried to quieten him down. (Mark's mother, that is; not Malcolm's own mother, as am pretty sure she is dead.) Felt my skin flush red. Mark, however, did not react in any obvious way and took me over to get a drink.

"Sorry about that," he murmured as he mixed me something with gin. "You see where that came from last weekend, then."

I knew he meant his drunken rambling. Could sense he was deeply embarrassed, so I said, "It's really okay."

He looked at me as he handed me my drink; far too penetrating a look for the occasion. "Bridget, I…" he paused, seeming v. serious, then said, "I hope you like this."

Was sure that I would, took sip to find it was delicious. "I do. Thanks." Scowled a bit. "Are you all right?"

He nodded. "I think the air out here is just getting to me—"

Just then, Mum practically accosted me, asking about work, etc., while practically ignoring Mark. Was v. rude. Waited for opportunity to get word in edgewise, drinking my cocktail for relief, and turned to draw Mark into conversation when it was obvious he'd moved away. Spotted him near his own parents; his mum had a hand on his (as usual) besuited arm.

"Mother," I said in a hiss. "Why are you being like this to Mark?"

"I never understood why he didn't take you back, Bridget," she said.

"Mother," I said again, "you treated him like dirt after he saved your backside in Portugal." She sniffed; know she is convinced there was nothing from which she needed saving, and is slightly resentful of the embarrassment caused. "Then we get together—after your _constant_ hounding for eighteen months—and you tell me I shouldn't sleep with him." Took in great breath. "He is no longer interested in me in that way, but we are friends, so can you just, for once… Please. Be. Civil?"

She blinked as if startled. "I don't know what you're talking of, darling. I am _always_ civil to him. He, on the other hand, in the guise of this 'friends' business…"

"Do not say what you're going to say," I said in v. dangerous tone, emboldened by the v. strong drink Mark had mixed. "Just don't."

She drew her lips into a v. thin line. "I'm just looking out for you," she said tersely.

Classic mum guilt. "Sorry. But please, Mum, don't take it out on him. We're in a good place now."

The evening improved after that; picked at the food, talked to my dad (who had not actually been drinking, thank goodness), then found my way back 'round to Mark, who hadn't had a single drop of alcohol all evening even as he made me another. "I'm driving my parents home to Huntingdon," he explained. "Can't decide about heading back to London tonight or tomorrow."

"Oh! If you go tonight," I said excitedly, "please can you take me home? Don't think I can take staying over after all."

So now he's gone to take his mum and dad home, then is coming back to get me. Thank God do not have to spend the night amidst the madness.

_11 pm_. Mark Darcy was mostly quiet during drive home, though at least was able to keep him entertained. Saw him smirking and fighting back a laugh on many occasions. When am totally sober will probably realise have just made fool of self as usual.

Was nice, though, to see him out of serious mood.

Sunday, 2 May

_8st 13 (blame Mum); calories: 1700; alcohol units: 5; mood: confused_

_11.45 am._ Woke with intent to get up and working (deadline in two weeks on Austen project, but am not in state of panic yet; ages of time yet) but found morning disrupted by call from Tom. "Bridge, don't want to alarm you," he said, "but I would _swear_ that I saw Mark Darcy at Heathrow this morning in the international terminal. Looked very harried. Everything okay?"

Heart started racing. What was going on? And—"Why were _you_ at the international terminal at Heathrow?"

"I asked you first," he said snippily.

"I don't honestly know," I said, and felt sad at that realisation. Surely whatever it was must have been last minute or he would have mentioned it to me. "You're sure it was Mark?"

"Well, no, I'm _not_ sure. That's why I asked."

Wanted to reach through phone and smack him. "I'll ring up Mark and find out."

_11.50 am._ Can't get through to Mark on any working number. Mobile going direct to voice mail. Left brief message. Wish knew what was going on.

_11.55 am._ Bastard Tom never told me what he was doing at Heathrow.

_12.10 pm._ Rang Tom back. Now he's not answering. Left him message. How am I supposed to get anything accomplished under these conditions?

_12.20 pm._ Have just been alerted to new voice message on mobile. How? From where? Have been here entire morning and have not missed any calls. Will play.

_12.27 pm._ Was message from Mark from early this morning; do not know why this got caught up in vortex and only just delivered now.

"Hello Bridget." V. serious-sounding. "I didn't want to trouble you with the possibility that I might have to go to Rome for a case, but as it turns out, I had to. Not sure when I'll be back, but definitely before the Provence holiday. Please don't worry."

Of course am worried. Bloody Mark Darcy.

_12.35 pm._ Of course Rome inevitably makes me think of Mr Darcy. Wonder if he remembers me? Probably not.

_3 pm._ Am smelling that smell again. Time to open window. Thank goodness is nice day outside.

_3.05 pm._ Tom called back at last. Sounded quite sheepish.

"Sorry I didn't ring back," he said. "Did you find out about Mark?"

Explained that I had, that Mark had gone to Rome for a case.

"How exciting!" he said. "Rome is _fabulous_, and—"

Interrupted: "Tom, what were you doing at Heathrow?"

Didn't answer right away. "Carl is in London."

Took a moment to make connection. Carl was San Francisco customs agent that Tom had left behind. "What? To see you?"

"He said it wasn't only to see me, but I like to think he's fibbing a bit, given—" Did not want him to continue, but knew he would: "—he's in the shower now after a _lovely_ round of shagging."

"Tom!" I said in a scandalised tone. "What about Jerome?" Am no fan of Creepy Jerome, but is not like Tom to cheat on his boyfriends.

"He dumped me last week," said Tom. "I was too distraught to talk to anyone about it."

Blimey. Feel so out of touch with friends. For all I know Jude really is having twins and Shaz has moved in with Simon. Realise have spent a lot of time recently with Mark; perhaps it is a small blessing he has gone abroad for a bit.

_3.30 pm._ Have rung up Shaz and Jude to see if they want to have dinner tonight.

"What, is Mark out of town?" quipped Shaz. Grr.

_10.45 pm._ Blurry good night. No need of man for fun. Have girlfriends and fun times. Except now they have gone home to their men, and one is really, really pregnant. Friend is, not one of the men.

Saturday, 15 May

_9st 2 (junk food is feast of Satan); calories: 1850; alcohol units: 4; mood: celebratory yet confused/horny_

_11.45 am._ Slept longer than intended, but is result of too little sleep over last two weeks, but have finished what needed finishing for my part in pre-production for Austen show. Grant is v. impressed with what have done and thinks it will be v. exciting show.

Must get back into good eating habits. Feel like bloated bag of fat cells.

_1.30 pm._ Was just wondering about Mark Darcy and Rome (all has been v. silent on that front, but sure he has been just as busy there as have been busy here) when phone went off, and as if through thought vibes alone, found it was Mark calling. "Hi," he said. "Sorry to have been so out of pocket. How are you?"

"Have missed you terribly," I said; hoped great rush of love at hearing his voice was not too obvious. Decided to change subject. "So how did it all go? Seemed so hush-hush."

He was v. quiet. "Very well," he said at last. "And all settled, so I'm free to tie up the minor stuff and have a nice holiday next month. How about you?"

Told him that all of my pre-production prep work was done as of yesterday, so it was first day of relaxation in a couple of weeks.

"I can relate," he said. "Still feeling a bit sluggish after all that, and the travelling."

"Oh," I said. "I was going to ask if you wanted to have dinner tonight, but if you're too tired…."

"No, no, I'd love to," he said. After a pause, he added, "I've missed you too."

So he's offered to pick up a takeaway and bring it by. He doesn't want to sit at a table at a restaurant; he wants to relax on my sofa. Can't disagree.

_11.30 pm._ Mark Darcy has just left. V. difficult night.

He showed up at about six with Greek takeaway and bottle of retsina. Said to me something to the effect of did I mind souvlaki but hardly heard for rushing of pulse in ears. He had got browned while in Rome, his hair was a dishevelled mess, and his linen dress shirt was opened to the second button. He looked absolutely gorgeous, and it took every ounce of restraint in my possession not to jump upon him and attempt to shag senseless.

Was v. good souvlaki and otherwise good evening. Tried not to get too pissed because would lose self-control and embarrass self and him, too, since he was relaxed back into sofa, occasionally closing eyes and looking like reclining god or similar.

Of course, realise now that he has gone and fog is lifting, that it was v. likely base response to long period of celibacy in addition to possible increase in lusty hormones thanks to cycle. Do not think it seemed obvious, or that was regarding him as piece of meat or similar, as he probably would not have stayed.

_Later._ Oh God. Have just woken from v. frustrating dream, where attempted to throw myself at Mark Darcy with obvious sexual advances, and he kept strolling through terminal at Heathrow as if he could not see me.

It has come to this: gagging for it in middle of night in a dream, and still getting rejected.

Sunday, 16 May

_9st 2 (ugh ugh ugh); calories: 1700 (loss of appetite); alcohol units: 0; urge to vomit: every ten seconds_

_8.45 am._ Awakened by putrid smell (speaking of gagging). V. bad. Must find source before madness sets in.

_10.00 am._ Oh God. Have found it. Asparagus. Was practically liquefied in crisper drawer; v. thankful that it was tied up in produce bag and therefore contained. Do not think will ever be able to eat asparagus again, esp. as hangover remedy.

Want to go out but cannot leave flat with windows open for purposes of airing out sick smell. Of course, temperature v. warm, which does not help matters.

Wednesday, 19 May

_9st 1 (better, better); calories: 2250 (defence mechanism); alcohol units: 5 (ditto); minutes spent wishing murder was legal: how long was drinks party?_

_11 am. Work._ Just got call from Mark Darcy wanting to know if was interested in attending drinks party with him this evening for work. Was about to ask if that wouldn't spark gossip re: him and me, but he added, "You're always so good helping in those social situations when I'd rather be anywhere else." Wanted to ask why he didn't just skip it, but obviously he would've if he could.

Then he added, as if afterthought, "Why don't I just get you from work and we'll have dinner beforehand?"

_10.30 pm._ Within minutes of arriving to drinks party at around eight, felt as if had huge target painted on self's back. Searched for many moments when felt ice in pit of stomach. Was Rebecca. If Mark noticed, he didn't show it. Wondered if he had known she would be here.

Had got a few drinks in self to steady nerves and was picking at the edible offerings when Mark pardoned himself to find the loo. This was when the inevitable happened. Rebecca took advantage of this golden opportunity as if I were a gazelle at the watering hole and she, a lioness on the prowl for a meal.

"Bridget, darling, how _wonderful_ to see you," she gushed. Liar. Phony smile a mile wide, made a show of looking around. "I thought I saw you here with Mark…?" She then cast a look towards the salmon pinwheels and satay sticks and looked pointedly away and back at me again, as if to say she wouldn't be caught dead putting another calorie into her mouth at this time of the night, as someone clearly inferior (me) had already done.

"Yes," I said crisply.

"Oh, how _adorable_!" she said, with a condescending clap of her delicately manicured hands. Then the jellyfish stings lashed out, though not as subtle as usual. "Are you _still_ trying to trap him? Is he yet convinced that box wine is the pinnacle of sophistication? That _Gladiators_ is refined sport?"

Had a moment where imagined myself luring her to have a closer look at the parmesan-stuffed portabella mushrooms and watching in glee as the ends of her perfect, shiny, swingy hair went into the catering chafing fuel and up in a blaze of flames. However, rose above this base urge and, with as great a reserve of dignity as humanly possible, I said at last in a calm, peaceful though slightly louder than appropriate voice, "Rebecca, why don't you fucking fuck off and go fuck yourself?"

Unfortunately, did not even get to enjoy the fruit of my fuck-filled labours (so v. satisfying!), because at that moment heard thundering voice of Mark Darcy: "Bridget!" Snapped 'round to see him taking role of stampeding elephant (to complete savannah parallel), heading towards me, clearly angry at my little outburst.

"Mark!" Rebecca gushed. "I'm _so_ glad to see you!"

"What have you said to her?" he demanded of Rebecca. As if I were not even there. Wondered what he did not want me knowing.

"Nothing, nothing at all!" she said, eyes wide in her over-acted innocence.

"I need to have a word with you," he said to her. To me: "Bridget, go wait in the car." As if were errant dog or evil child! Was about to brook opposition when he said my name again in v. dangerous tone.

"Fine," I said with a sigh.

So have been sitting in car for about twenty minutes now, pondering what they might have had to talk about for quite so long. Oh God. Was he telling her off for nearly spilling the beans on the possibility of their getting back together? Surely not. Surely.

_Nearly midnight._ Shortly after finishing above, Mark came out with v. angry look on face, walking in long, determined, hurried strides. Steeled self for backlash of fuck-laden outburst (even though would _never_ apologise for it). He got in driver's side, pulled door shut, just as Rebecca appeared at door and came towards the parked car.

He started ignition. Looked back to see Rebecca had tripped and fallen into puddle (had not been raining—from where came convenient puddle?). Not as good as hair aflame, but would take it as revenge scenarios go. Mark obviously had not seen, though, or surely would have gone to help even her.

As he drove (a little too quickly, hinting towards his continued ire), he didn't speak. Heart pounded in chest waiting for verbal chastising, but it never happened. Pulled up to my building, then turned to me. "Sorry about this evening," was all he said, in weary, resigned tone. "I should have guessed she might turn up. Shouldn't have gone at all."

Wanted dearly to take him into arms and console him, but instead only said that it was all right and I understood. Was really not himself as didn't even walk me to door. Came upstairs and (presumably) he went home. The more I think about it, though, was he trying to apologise that I'd maybe found out about possible reconciliation plans?

No, cannot think that way. Cannot think that he would go back to her, knowing it would mean the loss of our friendship. In that scenario, could have no further respect for him.


	6. Chapter 6: French Toast

**If—**

By S. Faith, © 2013  
Words: 53,952 (in 10 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 6: French Toast **

Sunday, 13 June

_8st 12 (as of departure… Yes! YES!); calories: 1950 (must maintain); alcohol units: 4 (after all, is France)_

_11 am. St Paul de Vence._ Had flight in last night, arrival to house in dark, so this morning for breakfast was when got first glance of surroundings. Beautiful, lush greenery and flowers everywhere, exquisite panoramic view of entire valley and you can just imagine the sea (well, can smell it, anyway) in the distance. Will be absolute heaven here for two weeks with no disturbance from outside world.

Travelled by air with Mark Darcy. As for Mark, we are fine again, friends as always. Whatever had happened the night of the drinks party—after unloading insults on Rebecca, though deservedly so—he was right as rain the next time we talked. Never once mentioned my telling her to fuck off. Cannot fathom what twenty minute discussion with her could have been about, though am trying not to dwell on it.

We are first to arrive, apparently. Jude gave me key. Feels very odd to be in minibreak-type scenario (again) with Mark Darcy and it not be a minibreak. (Well, suppose it _is_ minibreak, just a platonic one.)

_11.30 am._ Shaz and Simon just arrived. They both look really tired. Served up glass of refreshing local wine to perk spirits, which worked.

_11.35 am._ Mark just brought in sliced-up baguette with cheeses and fruits. Feel v. v. continental.

_11.45 am._ Shaz and Simon have gone up to room for a lie-down. Awkward. Am sure they have gone to shag.

_11.50 am._ Going for walk around garden. Too mortified for words. Can hear bed springs squeaking.

_1.30 pm._ Within moments of leaving house, Mark Darcy was behind me with great sun hat and bottle of sunscreen. "Thought you might want this, keep from getting burnt."

Offered a smile. "Thanks."

He offered to get between my shoulders (was wearing spaghetti-strap sundress) and… God. It felt so nice to have his fingers touching my skin. Felt my knees go weak. Stayed strong, though.

Then kept going and worked it down left arm. He commented as he got to my wrist, "Oh, you're wearing the bracelet I gave you."

"Yes," I said; after a hesitation, he moved to other arm. "I never take it off." Figure if did, would lose it, and is Tiffany, after all. Aside from it being from Mark, of course.

"Ah." Drew hand away, closed cap. "Mind if I walk with you?" he asked.

"Of course I don't mind," I said.

We had quiet walk, nothing in air but birdsong and wind through the leaves. So v. peaceful and serene. Felt sad remembering the good times at the first minibreak at Gloucestershire, before everything went to hell. I must have sighed because he asked me what was the matter.

"Nothing's the matter," I said, hoping it was convincing. "It's just so lovely."

"It is."

Mark very quiet entire time, but then I was too. Came back inside after decent amount of time. Squeaking had mercifully stopped. Came up for a lie-down. Think shall have one.

_2.15 pm._ Ow. Have looked in mirror and found bright patch of red skin on right shoulder. Must have missed a bit with sunscreen. Wonder if there is any sunburn gel.

_2.20 pm._ Oh God. Have burnt spot where bra strap usually sits, though is not too bad. Cannot wear bra though. Horrified. Will need to keep on sundress for now and wear cardigan or similar overtop as camouflage.

_10.30 pm._ Just up to go off to bed. Lovely evening. Mark cooked us all dinner and for dessert we had delicious cream puffs from local patisserie that Simon and Shaz had found when they went for a walk. V. g., but at this rate am not going to fit into bikini by the time we get around to sunbathing.

Now should try to get some sleep. Hope for peaceful, squeak-free night.

Monday, 14 June

_9st 7 (feel like—no scale, so is mood-weight); calories: ten million (so much cheese); alcohol units: 4 (should have had more)_

_7 am._ Hard time sleeping due to intermittent squeaking. Perhaps should go down to kitchen, find pot and wooden spoon, and bang on it to wake Shaz and Simon.

_8.30 am._ Went down to kitchen—not for pot and spoon but to see about coffee—to find Mark already down there. He looked as rough as I felt. We didn't say a word, but when we caught each other's eye we started to laugh and couldn't stop. Think it must have just been overtired, hysterical-type laughing.

"I'd ask if you slept okay, but…"

"Are you saying I look bad?"

"Not at all," he said, "but as your room is directly next to theirs and _I_ kept waking…"

More laughter.

He had already made some coffee so poured me some, and gave me too a _pain au chocolat_. "Where did these come from?" I asked, then took bite of sublime pastry. Tried to push thoughts of tight-fitting bikini out of head.

"I went down to the patisserie."

"Already?"

He nodded. "Borrowed a bicycle from the back."

Felt positively bucolic. Grinned as had another bite. It was really v. g.

_1 pm._ Have come to realisation that everyone coming to house is part of a couple except for Mark and me. This epiphany was sparked by arrival of Tom and Carl, the American customs agent who came to visit Tom more than a month and a half ago and has still not gone back. They looked travel-weary, and after suitable application of wine and a light lunch they went off to their room. Could not hear bed springs squeaking, but was sure they had been so overcome by the romance of their room in this rustic French cottage that they have taken to shagging.

(Note: 'cottage' is v. loose definition. House is larger than my parents' by almost double.)

Think will find shady spot in garden and sit and read, or sleep for a bit.

_3.30 pm._ Jude and Richard have arrived. Jude looks absolutely radiant and glowing. She is, I think, nearly seven months (she always talks in weeks and the only one who understands is Magda, like is some special, secret language), so am a little surprised she was able to fly. Is fairly short flight though (90 minutes), and am sure she would not have done so if doctor hadn't said it was all right.

_3.40 pm._ Magda and Jeremy are coming this weekend. Sans children, thank God.

_3:42 pm._ I mean, love Constance and the boys, but they really would be too much.

_3.45 pm._ Mental image of next weekend: symphony of bed springs punctuated by baby- and children-related conversation. Why did this holiday—especially inviting along Mark as platonic companion—seem like a good idea?

_9.35 pm._ Subtle shift now there are three couples, Mark, and me. Is like everyone going out of way to be inclusive and not make us feel weird or awkward. Either that or everyone's got their holiday shags out of their systems and are ready to be sociable. Much better atmosphere, to be honest.

_11.30 pm. In room._ Can't sleep. Sitting on balcony attached to room. Everything is dark and v. quiet; moon is new, I think, though stars are bright and twinkly. Cool (though pleasant) breeze in hair, only the sound of rustling leaves. V. lonely.

Gahhhh!

Tuesday, 15 June

_8st 2 (better day); calories: …oh, fuck it. Am on holiday._

_10 am._ Felt as if last night was true first day of holiday, really. Lots of fun.

Life had been startled out of me when had seen movement out of corner of eye. What at first appeared to be ghostly apparition occupying balcony next to mine was in actual fact Mark Darcy. Must have gasped in surprise, for something caused him to look towards me.

"Can't sleep?" I asked.

He nodded. "Though shhh," he said quietly. "You'll wake the others."

"They'd deserve it," I muttered.

He grinned. "Why don't you come over?" Before could ask/panic/get hopes up, he added, "I mean, so we aren't whispering across the distance. It seems silly to have a conversation this way if we both can't sleep."

"Okay," I said.

Slipped dressing gown over short nightie then went over to knock on his door. Hoped no one heard because could not bear thought of teasing by Shaz or similar. Door slipped open, and… urge to throw arms 'round his neck nearly too much to bear. Looked devastatingly sexy in slightly forlorn state, dressed in crumpled tee-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Pity he hadn't slept the way he usually does. Did. "Hi."

"Had an idea, actually," he said, stepping not back into room, but out into hall. "Let's go and investigate the freezer. Pretty sure there's some ice cream in there."

Like naughty children we tip-toed in the dark down to the kitchen, tittering as we surveyed the contents of the freezer until we found a few small containers of what appeared to be a local brand of ice cream.

"Can't read this. What are the flavours?"

He laughed lightly. "Not chocolate." Made slight sound of disappointment, which caused more laughter. Didn't mind v. much, though. "I'll serve some. Shall I just surprise you?"

I nodded. Knew that he knew what I liked and didn't.

Served up two bowls of what turned out to be a vanilla ice cream with big plump cherries (pitted, obvs.). We took our found treasure back upstairs to eat whilst sitting together on Mark's balcony. Figured with Mark's corner room we would disturb fewer people if our talking got out of hand.

Ice cream was clearly the work of angels, possibly even Jesus himself. Perfection despite obvious lack of chocolate. "Oh my _God_," I said in a voice that betrayed my six-months-plus celibate status. Cleared throat, then added, "This is really, _really_ good." Took in another spoonful. Felt v. gluttonous, but could not help self.

"Yes," he said after a long silence; could hear his own spoon scraping carefully against the bottom of the bowl. "It is."

After all of that (probably) full-fat dairy felt a bit lethargic and tired, so set bowl down and rose to feet, pulling dressing gown close around me. "Should go to sleep," I said, then on impulse, bent and kissed him on the forehead as he had done to self so many times (in retrospect, probably gave unwanted view down front). "Thanks. Goodnight."

Looked up at me from where he sat, offered a small smile. "Sweet dreams, Bridget."

Fell to sleep v. quickly, and stayed sleeping well beyond sunrise.

Saturday, 19 June

_9st (uncertain); calories etc.: unknown (but still on holiday)_

_10 am._ Have been having fantastic time. Can't believe first week over already. Eating delicious (though rich) food, imbibing amazing vintages of wine, and laughing a lot. Generally feeling v. g. and is unthinkable that ever had single moment of doubt in inviting Mark Darcy along.

Magda and Jeremy arrived yesterday, and today we are all making drive to coast. Have made short excursions before but today should prove to be wonderful, warm, frolic-on-beach-type day.

_10.10 am._ Unbelievable. Bikini still fits perfectly! Have put on beach cover-up, sandals, and wide-brimmed sunhat which will remove for the drive (we are all packing into two vehicles, poss. a bit of a tight squeeze). Have already done carrier bag with book, tanning lotion (with sunscreen, but not too high as want to be biscuit brown), etc. Think Jude and Magda, in manner of mummies (the maternal sort, not ancient Egyptian), have planned out picnic lunch, beverages, blankets and so forth for all of us.

Cannot wait to get to beach.

_12.05 pm._ Day at the coast is going as perfect as had imagined. Had breakfast then made short drive to the beach, where we set up a little camp of sorts. Occasional cloud in cerulean sky keeps temperature from getting too hot.

Oh, Mark has just asked if I would like to take a short walk. He thought he'd seen a café on our way in, said he'd buy me a coffee.

_1.35 pm._ Got back from café in time for picnic lunch. Café was lovely, ocean breeze over v. strong brew; seemed odd to drink foamy hot cappuccino while at beachside café, come to think of it, but it was perfect as cappuccinos go. Mark looks so happy and relaxed with tousled hair, casual shirt, and swim trunks. Hard to reconcile human rights barrister Mark Darcy with this man. Do not think have ever seen him wearing sandals before this trip. (How is he so much browner than self? Cannot still be so biscuit-y from his stay in Italy.)

Bit of a tense moment, though. Handsome older French gent came to table while Mark was paying for drinks. Was sort of flattered, to be honest, and smiled and nodded even though had no idea what he was saying (blame pitiful French teacher for not cramming more into head). Seemed like nice man, though, so thought would be good to be friendly in return.

When Mark came back… said nothing at first, just seemed to listen, then spoke French to man in v. stern lecture-y voice. Did not know what was said, but tone and escalating volume suggested content well enough; not that Mark was outright shouting, as he does not like that, but he was definitely asserting himself.

Secretly hoped that Mark was maybe a little jealous, but as we left the café, that hope was dashed. "Bridget, honestly, you can't go around opening up to every stranger we meet," he said as we walked down the path back to our little camp. Not jealous at all. Scolding and fatherly.

"But he was old enough to be my dad!" I said.

"As if that has ever stopped some men before," he muttered. "Did you learn nothing in Thailand?"

Felt sheepish and a bit wounded (though now that think of it, Jed did try to target me first, though had never told Mark that). Said in my own defence, "Jed wasn't that old."

He unexpectedly chuckled, dissolving all tension as he put his hand on my opposite shoulder—almost as if putting arm around self—then patted arm before taking it away. "I'm sorry I got a little worked up, there," he said. "It was just clear to me you hadn't the faintest what he was saying to you."

"What _was_ he saying?" I asked.

He didn't answer me because at that point we reached our area, lunch was being pulled out of the hampers, and we all started new conversations. Curious, though, to know what the gent had been saying.

Now that lunch is done, going to go get feet wet in the sea, and try to brown up a little on a blanket closer to the water.

_5.30 pm._ Oh no. Have just woken up, after falling asleep on beach next to water. Hope backside will not be lobster red. Have done suntan lotion, though…

_7.30 pm. House in St Paul de Vence._ Oh God. Have great big red blotch in middle of back. V. hot and painful. But is own fault.

Had been sitting and looking out over water (admittedly trying to catch glimpse of Mark swimming; still looks v. fit and lovely but may be biased a bit) to get front tanned. Then he came out of water towards me so shuffled around to seem like had just been about to turn over, doing backs of thighs with tanning lotion, etc.

"Oh," he said as he got closer, "why don't I get your back?"

"Okay." Laid down on front, reached 'round to pull on string to untie bikini top (and as did so, hoped he knew it meant that simply did not want tan line across back and not meant as come-on), and waited for the application of the cream. Should have resisted when he asked, but could not, because even this was better than nothing. Feel of hands sliding over back was almost more than could bear. To try to take mind off of things, asked first question to come to mind: "Mark, what was that man saying to me?"

Faltered in his movements. Hands went down sides, just under arms. Nearly moaned, to be honest. "Man?"

"The man at the café…?" I prompted.

"Oh, him," he said with what seemed to self to be forced nonchalance. "Nothing really." Then he was quiet.

"Mark Darcy, you did not get a head of steam up over _nothing_," I said just as fingers came v. close to slipping under top edge of bikini bottom, before pulling away altogether. Sure was accidental. Felt lovely all the same.

Was a different silence now, somehow. A 'thinking about what to say' silence. "Bridget," he said at last in rather Victorian manner, "he said things to you that no gentleman should ever say to a young lady."

Could feel his embarrassment acutely. Think it equalled mine. Did not know what to say, until realised I should just move past the subject and simply thank him for intervening, so I did.

Heard the cap on the lotion click closed. "It was nothing that any—" he began.

Knew what he was going to say and interrupted: "That's fine. I know any decent person could have done so." Turned and pushed self up a little to better look at him over my shoulder. Smiled. "But you did it for me, and I appreciate it."

He smiled too then looked to his hands, which he was rubbing to work lotion in; realised very quickly he was trying not to look at me, or at where bikini top was coming away (even though there had been many topless women on beach, not that have self-esteem to bare all in similar fashion). I turned back 'round, facing away again.

"I think you're all set," he said. "I'm going to… have another dip in the water. Don't fall asleep or anything, now."

Famous last words. Rested cheek down where had folded forearms in front of self, then next thing knew woke with a start when air started turning cooler. Why had everyone let me alone so long? (Probably had gone off shagging surreptitiously in sea. Bastards. Though this doesn't account for Mark.)

After tied up bikini top, stood, saw everyone in our area packing things up as if to go. Dearly hope they would have eventually come got me. Saw Jude and Richard (who had spent day relatively covered up) talking with Mark, who had strange, almost soft expression on face watching the two of them.

"Hi," I said.

"Oh, Bridge," said Jude. "You look a bit pink. Did you fall asleep?"

If Mark had laughed at that, swear would have punched him out.

When came back to house, had cool shower and is about time for dinner, but nothing seems comfortable with sunburned back. Wonder if Shazzer has any burn gel left.

Oh, knock on door. Should put on dressing gown or similar.

_10.30 pm._ Was Mark, apparently dressed for dinner in khaki trousers and a white cotton shirt, all clean-shaven and combed. Explained dilemma. He offered to fetch gel and bring it up. "Least that I can do for you, since I failed in suntan lotion duties," he said mournfully.

"It's all right. Just have Shazzer bring it up," I said in light tone. Surely would not have been able to control self if he'd rubbed in pain-relieving gel in comfort and privacy of own room.

"Sure, sure."

Within a few minutes Shaz appeared with tube of lidocaine-laden aloe gel. She took one look at affected area on back and winced a little.

"It's that bad, is it?" I asked mournfully.

"Let me just put on the gel."

After that was set, put on sundress. Had to go without bra as was too painful against back—far worse than shoulder burn had been, and cardigan or similar was not going to work as was much too warm for that—but Shaz insisted that it looked fine without. "No really," she said. "You can't tell at _all_. It looks very continental."

Wanted to point out that it couldn't be both, but was too hungry to argue about it.

Dinner was fantastic. Huge cold pasta salad with seafood (think Magda had done up pasta earlier, but when? How? Miracle mothering talent or time-machine), excellent wine, and dessert was more of the vanilla cherry ice cream.

Now am beyond tired, back sore from burn, but better than without gel at all. Pity—doubt will be able to do more sunbathing.

Monday, 21 June

_(Still on holiday; should care but don't. London v. far away.)_

_11.30 am._ Had v. long lie in after lazy day yesterday. Extremely hot weather all day, so stayed under shade in garden, sipping iced peppermint tea and snacking on amazing fresh cherries (managed to not get any cherry juice on pages of book, hurrah!). Magda and Jeremy had to go before dinner to catch flight home, but she had left more lovely pasta for cold salad. Talked a bit about other things to do, and Jude mentioned something about there being a midsummer beach bonfire on Saturday night. Think this sounds fantastic, almost pagan and wild.

Going to poke around downstairs and see about lunch.

_12.15 pm._ Well, that's v. weird. No one seems to be around. Will just make a sandwich and have some milk.

_12.40 pm._ Now am getting well spooked. Where has everyone gone?

_1.30 pm._ When heard tyres of vehicle crunching on the private drive of house, looked out window and half-expected to see police vehicle, crime scene investigators, etc. in caravan to investigate a crime I had not been aware of. Was just a plain silver car. Out came Mark, who was alone.

"Hello, Bridget," he said as he came inside, then saw my look of alarm and removed his sunglasses. "What's wrong?"

Spoke slowly as if to stupid person (which obviously, Mark is anything but). "Where. Is. Everyone?"

Now he regarded me as if were mad. "Did you forget? Everyone else had to fly home this morning. I'm just back from the airport—" He gestured towards the vehicle. "—because I'd decided to hire a rental car so we wouldn't be limited only to where we could go on foot… or that solitary cycle."

Heart beat wildly in chest; alone in Provence with Mark for a week was _much_ different than alone in a flat in New York. "Oh."

He laughed. "You forgot."

Was about to protest, but grinned instead. "Yeah," I admitted. "I forgot."

"So," he said with a grin as he put his sunglasses back on. "Want to go exploring?"

_9.30 pm._ We hopped into car and drove all around the area with top down (was Saab convertible!) and music humming (something classical, not surprising). Stopped for dinner at little bistro. Mark ordered since could not read menu, and picked perfect beef dish with a red wine that I could actually tolerate. Everything perfect and lovely in manner of free-spirited adventurers (though, ones with a little bit of a budget). Got back to the house not v. long ago, but since he was exhausted from the day (had gotten up early to accompany friends to airport in order to hire car, etc.), he was going to wash up and go to bed. Am going to make tea and sit on balcony for a bit. Feeling a bit sleepy too.

_10.15 pm_. Just remembered about midsummer bonfire. Disappointed. Cannot go on own, though, and doubt v. much that Mark would want to go.

Thursday, 24 June

_8st 3 (joyous, sun-filled day); calories: do not care; alcohol units: does not matter_

_9.30 am._ Has been such a lovely week. Back that had got burnt is feeling tons better, so today we are going back to beach for the day. No picnic, just winging it (plus café serves good-smelling food and desserts, and not just coffee). Really amazing how unstructured he has been.

_Nearly midnight._ Just home. Completely exhausted. More in AM.

Friday, 25 June

_9st 8 (probably closer to reality, and going home soon); calories: oh God; alcohol units: OH GOD_

_10.55 am._ Yesterday v. g. wonderful day out at coast and beach. Temperature was v. tolerable though still sunny (though typically cooler at coast, anyway). Did not fall to sleep while sunbathing, so major win. Had a bit of fun though while Mark dozed; attempted to bury him in manner of Dad on beach and had got as far as his knees when he stirred, saw what had done, laughed, pushed himself up and started chasing me 'round. When he caught me up, he took me over his shoulder then tossed me into the water. (Slightly easier now to put thoughts of physical contact out of head. _Slightly._) Bikini not v. conducive to actual swimming (nearly lost bottoms on toss into water—not possible that bottoms have become too loose, surely?), but had fun cooling off in refreshing sea water, and got into a bit of a splash fight with Mark (hard to keep eyes from salt glinting on chest).

All that fresh air, sun and sea meant long, leisurely dinner in seaside bistro. Wine went immediately to head (Mark refrained from wine, which was probably wise) and felt a bit squiffy. Was lively little local folk band playing music, was in mood for dance, so begged relentlessly until he gave in. Am afraid might have been a bit too flirty for comfort when dancing, but if it bothered him he took it in stride. (Have just realised he puts up with a lot from me.)

Made the drive home and then decided it was a good night for more ice cream, so we took that and a little dessert wine out into back garden. Polished the rest of the vanilla cherry off as would be pity to let it go all funny in freezer. Needed a bit of help upstairs as wine had not yet abated. Nice hug, kiss on cheek, bade me goodnight in tender voice.

When got back in bedroom realised with a measure of sadness that evening—well, whole day, really—was like… the best date ever. Except not with boyfriend, but ex-boyfriend who seems to be between oddly named girlfriends. (Hm. Girlfriends… or companions? Cannot imagine Lavinia in bed with him. Horrifying thought.)

Oh. Just heard tap on door and quiet query, "Are you alive in there?" Best go demonstrate presence and will away faintest hint of hangover.

_3.30 pm._ Came up for another lie-down. Was Mark earlier, obvs., bearing coffee, a pastry, and headache tablets. V. sweet. How well he knows me.

_4.45 pm._ Oh. Oh God. Have just woken from dream that….

Can_not_ face beach again, not with Mark, not after that (admittedly v. g. and quite realistic) dream. Will be v. difficult to meet his eye this afternoon.

_10.30 pm._ Am stunned. Over dinner tonight, Mark said to me out of blue, "You know, I've heard that there's a fairly large summer celebration tomorrow night on the beach. What do you say we make that our last hurrah before flying home on Sunday?" Took advantage of my shocked silence to add in v. stern voice, "But only if you're packed and ready to go before the party."

Willing to make beach exception for tomorrow night's bonfire, but that will be all right as will be in evening.

Sunday, 27 June

_11st (dread looking at scale; is weight of conscience); calories: 500 (hope); alcohol units: 0 (must be saint for weeks)_

_3.55 pm. My flat._ Have just arrived home. Going to have dinner at Mark's later, as have no food in house and must do shopping at Tesco tomorrow, but can stop and reflect re: wonderful, wonderful night at bonfire. Nearly perfect.

Had dinner at lovely bistro, one we had been to one or two times before in walking distance of beach. Beef bourguignon and excellent red wine again. Had worn sleeveless sundress with light shawl and sandals, hair pinned up, which all felt very summery.

V. festive atmosphere, though chatter around self was a bit strange since was all in French (rather, in not-English). Found refreshments and slipped off sandals to pad through the still-warm sand (even Mark was barefoot).

Watched shadows grow long over the sea, watched the sky dim overhead, in the warmth of one of several fires on the beach. Unfortunately, found v. quickly that temperature had not stayed as warm as had expected after sun went down, and light shawl was not enough.

Must have begun shivering a bit, because Mark clasped me by the wrist and pulled me up to him. He had not worn a jacket so he just put his arm around my shoulders, rubbing my upper arm to stimulate warmth before settling it comfortably there. Felt v. nice… held cosily, pressed up against his warmth, his hand on my arm. Stayed like this v. long time. Closed eyes and sighed, leaning in to him, feeling the glow of the fire on my face, the sound of distant conversation and crackle of the logs. Swore he hugged me tighter to him, felt his chin on the top of my head.

"Bridget?" His voice was very quiet, nearly inaudible.

"Yes?" Cannot describe how badly wanted next to feel him kiss my forehead, cheek, throat, anything. Bloody celibacy.

"Do you remember—" Impossibly close to my ear. Surely imagination playing tricks. "—the note I gave you at the poetry reading before you went to Thailand?"

Shit. Mark has just messaged self that he is downstairs.


	7. Chapter 7: Two Steps Back, One Step F

**If—**

By S. Faith, © 2013  
Words: 53,952 (in 10 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

Sorry for the delay. Went to see _Star Trek: Into Darkness_ last night! (Please do not put spoilers in the reviews, or I'll have to delete them. That movie is best gone into unspoiled!)

A big THANK YOU to those who have left reviews without a way for me to respond directly to them. :)

* * *

**Chapter 7: Two Steps Back, One Step Forward**

Monday, 28 June

_8st 8 (Have lost weight. HAVE LOST WEIGHT!); calories: 1750 (though craving cherry vanilla ice cream); alcohol units: 5 (perfectly reasonable)_

_9 am. At work._ Have been in for an hour and have still not got through entire inbox of email. Many positive responses to Austen show. Seems a lifetime ago.

Cannot believe just spent two weeks in south of France putting all manner of rich food and tons of wine into self and have _lost four pounds_ since went away. Feel as someone has just disproven the existence of God. What to believe anymore? Do not know.

_10.45 am._ Also do not know how Mark could possibly have thought I could forget "If" poem he gave me the night before my ill-fated Thailand trip. Was like portable self-help book; had practically memorised it during stay in Thai prison. Got me through toughest times, and realised "If" would get me through this one, too. _Force your heart and nerve and sinew_, told self, there on beach, as felt body become slightly less casual, a bit stiffer. Calm, quiet voice. Cool. Was his way of subtly reminding self of need to be strong… and to back off.

"Yes," I said at last in sombre tone, bowing head down abashedly, pulling away.

Felt Mark slip gently away from me, too. "Okay," he said with equal gentleness. Tone went brighter again as he said, "We should head back to the car. It's getting quite late."

Felt as if we'd had major conversation with only two words exchanged.

Short drive back to house was in a silence that confused me. He was v. thoughtful, but not in awkward way. Returned to house with only the barest of words spoken. Gave me friendly (though longer than usual) hug, peck on forehead goodnight, then said, combing my hair out of my eyes. "Don't keep yourself up too late, Bridget. I'll be setting my alarm for seven."

With that he was off. Wanted so badly to call after him, throw myself at him, do _anything_… but had already come too close that night for his comfort. Went into bedroom and tried not to think about everything—still loving him, still wanting him, but not wanting to lose his friendship—but would be lying a bit if I said I hadn't shed a tear or two.

_2 pm._ It was probably for the best to bring "If" to mind to steel heart/nerve/sinew/etc. because when we returned to Mark's house for dinner last night, he had a message on the answerphone. He asked if it was okay to play. Said if it was okay with him, was fine with me.

Wanted to take sledgehammer to answerphone at hearing the following.

"Hi, Mark… It's me. Lavinia." Tragic-heroine voice in manner of—yuck—Rebecca. "Heard you're coming back from your holiday and… listen, I've been thinking and… I've reconsidered. What I said to you about the ultimatum. I'm sorry. I'd really like to… see you again. Call me, okay? Bye."

In all fairness he looked as surprised as I felt. How could that cow be so nonchalant? Wanted to drop down through floor or similar, but no, had made bed, now had to lie in it. Even if was sexless bed.

He looked to me as if gauging my reaction. "Well," he said. "That was unexpected."

Wanted to blurt out and ask if he was going to call her, but oddly enough, he turned on his heel, then made for the kitchen, descending the stairs and expecting me to follow.

"I've popped a chicken parmigiana in the oven that my housekeeper put together for me…" He trailed off. "I thought that you'd like that."

The answerphone message had turned him introspective; that much was obvious. Dinner was v. g. but… sensed he wanted to talk and thought he couldn't ask me, like he thought I would mind. My feelings didn't matter in being supportive friend—even if it hurt a bit. Could not stand the quiet and finally asked in a tender voice, "Mark, are you thinking of calling her?"

Saw his jaw tense; knew he was considering his words. Then he looked up at me, directly into my eyes with as penetrating a gaze as ever. "Do you think I should?"

_No_, I wanted to say, wanted to take his shoulders and shake sense into him; _I want you to want me again_. But past is past so merely offered up bright smile, nodding, spewing out lie after lie: "She seems nice, you did seem to like her very much, and you saw each other for quite a while; surely you can patch up the previous misunderstanding and move forward. She did take back whatever ultimatum it was she offered, so… that's good, right?"

He didn't break the gaze for what felt like far too long, then said, "You're right. Everyone deserves a second chance." Smiled tenderly. "Thanks."

Realise all too acutely that 'everyone' did not include me. Not posh enough, or thin enough… and name not trendily out-dated enough, clearly.

Saturday, 3 July

_8st 9 (No. NO! This must stop); calories: 2100 (starting to see the problem); alcohol units: 6 (understandable as is weekend)_

_10 am._ Late breakfast. Was rough week re-entering into work force. Was not an especially heavier workload than usual, but it all seems so much more difficult and particularly pointless after two whole weeks away from it all.

Quiet week, though. Suppose that Mark is busy reacquainting himself with Lavinia. (Was going to say 'busy courting Lavinia' but ugh, is terrible thought.)

_10.30 am._ Have decided to ring up to see if the girls want to go out. Well, probably not Jude, as is approaching status of wide-load lorry with her pregnant belly. But surely Shaz is up for a drink or two. Unless she's got shag-plans with Simon.

_12.15 pm._ Was right about Shaz. Sigh. Things must be v. serious with him now as they have been on longer than ever before. Rang up Jude anyway for a nice talk—hadn't seen or spoken to her since she and Richard left Provence (sounds so Sloaney to say).

"So how was the week?" Jude asked. "Did you go to the beach bonfire?" Such voyeuristic enthusiasm in voice.

"Yes, we did," I said, thinking again on moments near fire, Mark's arm around me, but then shook self loose from fantasising. "It was really nice. Thanks for mentioning it."

"And…" she prompted.

"And what?"

"Mark? How is he? It looked like the two of you were joined at the hip."

_How wrong appearances can be_, I thought. Knew to what she was trying to hint. "He's fine," I said. "He's gotten back together with Lavinia."

Swear she began choking or similar. "You've got to be kidding me. _That_ stick insect?"

Laughed loudly. "Yeah. She apologised, said she wanted to see him again." Shrugged; not that Jude could see. "So, what are you doing tonight?"

Turns out Richard and she had set the night aside for planning for the baby's arrival, which was due in middle of August, and is not that far away. Have bought store's worth of baby furniture and have done up one of the extra rooms as nursery. Felt like begging to come over just for some human interaction after a lonely week, but did not want to intrude.

_12.25 pm._ To spend nearly every waking hour with someone for a fortnight then not see them at all feels like withdrawal. Worse than giving up ciggies.

Oh! Tom! I'll ring up Tom.

_1.50 pm._ Have just heard Tom's lament re: Carl's departure for the sunny shores of California (or should that be foggy?). "I don't know what to _dooooo_, Bridge," he said between details of their time together, ones that verged a bit on over-sharing. Tried to offer advice but heart wasn't really in it. Tom clearly in no mood to be social. (Tom said Gav—oh God, Gav, he of squashy tummy declaration—was coming by for them to watch DVDs. Pretty sure did not want to be part of that.)

_10.30 pm._ Back from big night out… at Magda and Jeremy's. Normally would be easy to scoff in derision at such a Smug Married evening, but was actually v. g. night out. V. grounding.

After Tom conversation, rang up Magda to talk. She said we had not spent enough time together in Provence, and why didn't I just come over for dinner? So did that. Spent time with the children. The boys are getting so big and were friendly, but were content playing with each other. Left time with Constance, who is already five and sharp as a tack. We played with her Barbie dolls and she was like a mad little film director, telling me what this one should say and which clothes to wear. Played out what seemed to be a little love story with her girl doll and two of the boy dolls. Asked, "So which one does Barbie go out with?"

"Her name is Martha," said Constance with an air of gravity, "and she doesn't go out with either of them. They're both jerks."

Oh, for the self-esteem and self-confidence of a five-year-old.

Stayed a little after helping put the children to bed—though suspect my presence did not help as they were v. excitable—then had one last parting glass of wine with Magda while Jeremy got caught up on the sport scores.

"How was the rest of your time in Provence?" Magda asked. "Was it fun?"

"It was great," I said with more enthusiasm than I felt. It _was_ fun, but my reflections back on it are shadowed by the hindsight realisation that it was not, in fact, the re-budding of romance at all. Think in heart of hearts had hoped it was. Magda might have been hinting towards that, too (along lines of Jude's 'joined at the hip' quip) but pretended not to catch it. "Spent so much time in the sun I got browned—can't you tell?"

She grinned. "You look great," she said. "A glow to your skin, sun streaked hair…. It's really too bad."

Bloody hell, she knew. Somehow, Magda knew that Mark was seeing that stick insect again, that what she'd seen on the weekend had been an illusion. Didn't say a word, just told her my taxi would be there soon and had to go down to meet it. Think she knew was looking for a graceful out rather than further discuss it. Think Magda is psychic, to be honest.

Thursday, 8 July

_8st 9 (delicate balancing act); calories: 2150 (effective: poss. 0); alcohol units: 4 (effective: 0)_

_Noon._ Ugh. Went out for drinks last night with Tom and Shaz—knew totally was bad idea when they asked and yet went anyway. Was so nice to just forget everything and be with friends in casual way. Have felt quite lonely post-holiday. Got v. used to being around people.

Am working from home today. Quite confident that _all_ people who work from home are actually suffering through vile hangover.

Tuesday, 13 July

_8st 9 (holding steady); calories: 1900 (better); alcohol units: 0 (saint, angel or similar)_

_11 am._ Have had most bizarre phone call. Did not recognise incoming number on work line, so answered it with all due professionalism. Pause of silence then, "Hello?"

Was confused. "Hello?" I said.

"Oh, terribly sorry, thought it was a machine for a moment there. Was all set to ring your mobile."

_Yes, and who the fuck are you?_ I wanted to shout.

"I don't know if you remember me, but this is Lavinia Cowan-Botton." Ugh. As if it were possible I knew (or knew of) more than one Lavinia. Tried not to snigger at pretentious, ridiculous name but then she added, "Mark's girlfriend."

"Of course," I said, spirits sinking.

She went on, almost nervously to my ears. "We never really got to know one another _before_, and I would dearly love to rectify that _now_." Got subtext loud and clear. _Before_ he'd dumped her. _Now_ they were back together.

Tried to be pleasant. Hopefully succeeded. "So what can I do for you?"

"I'm having a little dinner party on Saturday night," Lavinia Cow's-Bottom said, then corrected herself. "_We_ are. I would really love it if you would come."

Would rather have eaten broken glass and rusty nails than spent time willingly with this woman, but the facts were that a.) she was suddenly making effort to be nice to me (maybe at Mark's prompting?) so should do likewise and b.) _really_ miss seeing Mark as have not seen him for more than two weeks. Plus, would be dinner party. With any luck, maybe he'll ask other friends, like Jude and Richard or Magda and Jeremy, so won't feel totally lost.

"That would be great!" I said with false brightness. "What time, and where?"

Turns out will be at seven and will be at Lavinia's place in Mayfair. Maybe Jude has something can borrow. She won't need designer clothes for another two months at least. Though knowing Jude, she'll be sporting toned abs by mid-September.

Saturday, 17 July

_8st 11 (Cow's-Bottom to blame, just know it); calories: 2100 (nervous eating); alcohol units: 4 (on best behaviour)_

_10.30 am._ Heading out for shopping. Rang up Jude last night about coming over to raid wardrobe, and she laughed. "Of course you _could_ borrow something, Bridge, but why should you? You're a top television researcher/producer now. Go out and buy yourself something nice."

Think she was taking the piss. Am I top television researcher/producer?

_10.45 am._ Realise that no, she was not. Am mature (though, not in same sense as Mum is mature), professional woman, and should start to build my own wardrobe full of lovely things.

_3.15 pm._ Have returned. Feel like (ugh) Rebecca, swanning into flat with five carrier bags of things and slumping onto sofa with dramatic sigh. But have had great success. Will look fabulous tonight. Must perk self up with a bit of food then get ready.

_11.30 pm._ Arrived to posh Mayfair digs slightly late (due to minicab-being-late cascade of events) to find that that only person there I knew was in fact Mark. He was being pleasant but not overly friendly, as if on best behaviour himself. Brought me wine, said looked nice (was not sure if eyes were playing tricks, but swore caught him stealing glance at chest).

Formal re-introduction to Lavinia Cow's-Bottom (yes, is mean; do not care). Still tall, still thin with figure of pre-pubescent boy. She was smiley and attentive, introducing me to the others at party, but after three such introductions, began to feel as if was being trotted around like novelty pet or brand new baby. Not sure, but think that she is as old as Mark, maybe even older by a year or two. Found self secluded and picking at the starters. Tried not to have too much wine as did not want to get totally shitfaced. Wished v. much that Mark would come and talk to me. Did not want to interrupt what were v. clearly serious conversations, most of which were about things on which Mark was obviously an authority (law, finance, etc.). When tried to insert self in one such conversation—in particular about charity giving—swear got warning look from Mark at the merest hint I might actually offer an opinion.

Dinner was good, but v. pretentious, small portions and ostentatious presentation. Style over substance. Others fawned over it. (Had serious doubts she made it herself, actually.)

To his credit, Mark did seem to notice was looking miserable, and tried keeping company with me after dinner, but he seemed flat compared to holiday version of himself, not to mention Lavinia kept finding some reason to pull him away. For her pretence of wanting to get to know me better, she did not seem all that interested in my company.

Left as early as was decent. Shed dress and took down hair, washed face of makeup and put on pyjamas. Intend on having remainder of pint of ice cream and watch a bit of telly.

_11.50 pm._ Oh God. Have just realised she is Rebecca-like horror all over again, complete with stinging jellyfishes (example, said to self with Mark out of earshot: "Mark is _always_ saying you're like a sister to him!") and patronising demeanour.

Hurtful that Mark does not see is almost exactly the same. In fact—he _was_ rather watching over me as if were little sister. Maybe Cow's-Bottom is right.

Tuesday, 20 July

_8st 12 (life is totally unfair); calories: 1600 (but is okay as have fat reserves); alcohol units: 0 (not for lack of wanting)_

_8.30 am._ Whilst getting ready for work have just had panicked phone call from Jude. Richard's gone out of town for day, has their car, and Jude thinks baby is coming early. Wants to know if can take her to hospital. Oh God.

_4pm. Hospital waiting area._ Utterly exhausted. Just after wrote above went into full-blown panic stations. Reverted to old habits. Rang up Mark.

"Bridget, what is it?" he asked before had even had chance to ask. Explained situation. "But what about your car—oh, you're out of petrol, are you?"

"No," I said defensively. "It's at the shop. And I'm too freaked out to drive."

Long pause—during which admit wondered if Cow's-Bottom was there—then he said, "I'll be there in ten minutes."

When showed up he had a cappuccino with him. Explained that he had been at coffee shop when his mobile went off. Decided to bring one for me to calm nerves. V. nice of him. We were then off to Jude's, with me on mobile telling her not to panic and that we were on the way, and Mark the picture of calm as he drove. Arrived in v. short while considering usual madness of traffic in London. Jude—and feel bad for writing this—came waddling out with carrier bag of things in hand, and pained smile on face. "Oh, thanks Bridge," she said, then seemed surprised to see Mark there. Did v. quick explanation of how he'd come to be involved, then asked her if Richard was heading back. "I left messages," she said, "but I think his phone is out of service area."

Held tongue, but thought, _Typical._

Went over to hospital that she'd pre-selected for birth/delivery and explained situation. Jude had my hand and was squeezing tight enough to make me wonder if fingers would break, voice shaky and uncertain, tears in eyes; could tell she was in v. serious pain at what seemed like regular intervals. Seemed v. much like labour pains. Hospital practically went into red alert with klaxons going off and everything, staff running around like chickens menaced by fox, as was about a month too early by everyone's reckoning. Whisked off, leaving me with Mark. We went into waiting area.

Mark made quiet calls on his mobile as I rang Grant to let him know what was going on. He assured me it was all right. Tried too to ring up Richard but went straight to out of service area message. Nurse then came out to talk to us. Couldn't say a lot since we were not family, but that it seemed she was actually in labour though waters hadn't broken, and that she was with the doctor now.

We waited for about an hour—mostly in silence, occasionally talking on v. safe subjects—before nurse returned to tell us they had given her drugs to calm the pains, but they were still happening and it seemed v. likely she would have the baby. "They've put her in a room if you want to see her," she said.

Looked to Mark, and he to me. "Sure," I said.

Jude looked v. tired, v. sweaty, but slightly spaced out and had goofy expression on face when we went in. "Oh, Bridge," she said. "Did you get hold of Richard?"

"Not yet," I said. "I'll keep trying."

"How are you feeling?" Mark asked.

"Still hurts, though don't care as much now," she said with a little laugh.

We stayed with her for a bit until she screamed out in pain again and doctors came flooding in, so we had to go. My phone went off as we were rushing out. It was Richard who'd only just gotten the message. I filled him in and he said he'd turn 'round and come back to London at once. Said he should be there in a couple of hours. "Hope I don't miss the birth," he said. "We've been doing classes."

"I'll stay," I said definitively to him. "If she needs someone." How hard could coaching someone be? Have seen it on the telly enough times.

Found self was shaking though, and Mark helped self to the seat in waiting area. "God, how scary was that?" I said, my own voice quivering.

"You did fine," he said reassuringly. "I can stay for a little longer, but have a court appearance I am not able to get out of. Will you be okay if I have to go before Richard comes?"

His concern was touching. I nodded. "Thanks for dropping everything for this. Or at least trying to."

"Of course," he said.

Short, nervous, release-of-tension laugh came out of me. Thought of Jude's scream of terror at pain, thought of feelings of panic and of upheaval of all normal business over which one has no control. "God," I said with a sigh as slumped back in seat, "if I ever express the need to have one of those things, just do me a favour and shoot me."

He offered a smile, but it was sort of a half-hearted smile. Wondered what was going through his mind—probably thought that any baby would be just as happy not to have self as mother.

Did not get a chance to talk much more as he did have to go. "Let me know how it all turns out," he said. Said that I would.

Rang up Jude's parents to let them know what was going on. Got answerphone, then remembered they were on holiday (in India? Somewhere far anyway) since they did not expect Jude to have baby just yet, so left message. Don't know how to get hold of Richard's parents so figured would leave that to him. Rang up Shaz and Tom, too, but told them there was no point in coming down yet. (Think they were secretly relieved to not be expected to come down just yet.)

Think must have fallen asleep after that as was woken up to be told that her waters had broken and Jude was asking for her husband. Had to explain he was on the way but would go help in his place. The less thought of that, the better, though was happy to have been there. Can't imagine if she had to go through that with no one. Hand and arm still sore from the grasping though. She sounded desperately miserable.

It was about two (later than expected, probably due to traffic) that Richard turned up looking harried and flustered and not his usual smooth self. Had on hospital gown, hat, booties on feet like I did. I smiled, and so did he. Brought him up to date about waters going, and thought he might faint. "She'll be glad to see you," I said. "Though you might want to ring up your family before you go on in."

"Oh, good idea," he said.

Told him I'd stay close (no reason not to, wanted to be there for Jude and in case he needed me to run errands) before we swapped places. By that point had only had to eat or drink the cappuccino Mark had brought and was famished, so went out for quick run to get something. Rang up Mark while waiting for (hate to admit it) fast food cheeseburger and chips.

"How's everything?" he asked, so told him; rather liked being the one everyone was asking for updates. Then he asked, "Are you on your way home?"

"No, going to stay, but just getting something to eat. In case I'm needed."

"Oh," he said. "Well, I appreciate you letting me know."

Felt we'd parted on awkward terms before, so I said, "Come by here later if you can."

He didn't answer immediately. "If you think they wouldn't mind."

I scoffed. "Don't be silly. I'm sure Richard would love to thank you in person."

Returned to waiting area and others around self looked avariciously at my food, which have just finished up. Now waiting for further word.

_10.10 pm. My flat._ Totally shattered physically, but such a happy day. Baby—tiny Richard Russell (as second name, to honour Jude's maiden name)—finally made his appearance at about seven. Is apparently nice, healthy weight despite early appearance, with full head of hair etc. Wonder if doctor had not been mistaken on when conceived.

His papa is quite proud and pleased and his mum is not, thankfully, in a drug-induced haze, and is instead beamingly happy though completely exhausted. Got to meet the newest member of Urban Family—and also held him, though was terrified would damage or otherwise break him. Tiny little fragile pink thing all swaddled up. Fell immediately in love with the little bugger.

Was holding him in her room when knock on open door heralded arrival of Mark Darcy. Eyes met, and we both smiled. "So that's him, then," Mark said with unusually tender tone.

"Yep," I said, though quietly so not to wake the baby. Mark sat next to me on the edge of Jude's bed.

"Want to hold him?" said Jude. "You can."

"If you're sure," he said. I then handed him over. Have never seen Mark look like he did at that moment—almost as if in awe of the miracle of life or similar.

"I'm glad you're both here together," said Richard. "We've been talking about it… and can think of no one we'd rather have as godparents than the both of you, particularly after today. You really came through for us."

Had sudden flash of Shaz or Tom as godparent. Not v. g. or generous thought to imagine them drinking and debauching with baby sitting in bassinette wailing.

"I would be honoured," Mark said softly, before looking up to them. Swear he had tear in eye. (Since when does Mark Darcy get all gooey over babies?)

After Tom and Shaz arrived, was almost like festive party, but could sense that the new family wanted some more alone time so we said our goodbyes.

Felt curious dichotomy of wanting to go out and celebrate at same time wanted to fall into bed and sleep for a day. Asked Mark whether he wanted to have supper (as really wanted to talk a bit more, spend time with him, now that panic stations were over), but he already had plans to meet Lavinia for dinner. He offered though to stop and get me a curry takeout, and was in no mood to argue as really needed to eat. Came up to flat long enough to say goodnight, have quick look around place (almost nostalgic?) as I got settled in, then left to make his date.

Now have eaten, should go to sleep, but feeling a bit insomniac. Wish could pinpoint why.

Friday, 23 July

_8st 10 (maybe friends should have babies more often); calories: 2500 (celebratory); alcohol units: 4 (ditto)_

_4.30 pm._ Heading out of work early to go over to see Jude, Richard and Rusty (Tom's nickname for their baby, based on 'Russell', which is unfortunately sticking despite baby not in fact being a ginger).

_9.20 pm._ Turned into almost like old times only slightly more subdued. Ordered pizzas and had wine (well, Jude did not) to celebrate new baby life. Tom, Sharon and Simon came by too with presents, etc. since baby shower has been cancelled as was supposed to be tomorrow and she doesn't want to reschedule. Secretly grateful as had forgotten all about shower and had not got present.

Surprised to see Mark and Cow's-Bottom turn up to make appearance. She cooed and fussed and held the baby and… hate to admit it, she was v. good with little R. Ugh. Hoped dearly that baby would spit up on her, but no such luck.

Made plans to go out with Shaz, Simon and Tom over the weekend.

Wednesday, 28 July

_8st 9 (miracle of stress); calories: 1700 (know should be more but not hungry); alcohol units: 1 (with dinner, natural and just)_

_3.30 pm._ Work has been v. busy and am on a level grateful as it takes mind off of other things, like fact is have been home from Provence for a month and have only seen Mark Darcy four times since then. Miss him, but do not blame him. Is not his fault he would rather be with girlfriend than mere friend who is ex-girlfriend.

_3.45 pm._ Would still quite like to know what happened to split him from Rebecca, though.

Friday, 30 July

_8st 7 (2 lbs. fled in shock); calories: unknown; alcohol units: 5 (necessary)_

_2.30 pm._ Surprised to get phone call at work from Mark, wanting to know if we could meet after work for quick drink. "I want to talk to you about something," was all he said. V. curious.

_8 pm. My flat._ Oh God. Head still spinning. V. bad business. Have _never_ been so tempted for a Silk Cut (since giving up, anyway).

Met Mark for drink at pub near to work. Sat at bench-type table with v. high-backed seats so we had some privacy. Wanted my advice but didn't get round to asking until he'd had a couple of shots of scotch in him.

"Oh?" I asked, a bit chuffed that practically perfect Mark Darcy was feeling uncertain about something.

"Yes." He looked down. "I'm thinking of…" He looked up again. "Proposing to Lavinia."

For a moment was sure I must have misheard, sputtered, "What?" Did not care about being proper, saying 'pardon', etc.

"Proposing to Lavinia," he repeated.

"I heard you," I said. "Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why'? Why does one ever propose?"

_For love_, I thought. _For passion. For 'I can't live without this person for the rest of my life'_… none of which was overwhelmingly present (at least to self) between the two of them. "You just don't…" I began, then stopped.

"Whatever you're thinking, say it," he commanded.

"You just don't seem like you're very much in love with her. You won't be happy," I said. "You want my honest advice? I think it would be a terrible mistake."

He stared at me, face going pale. "I want a family," he said at last. Now his face deepened to red. "We have respect for one another and care about one another."

"But you're not in love with her."

"I don't have the luxury of waiting for that anymore."

"That's madness," I said, feeling as reality was slipping away from me, as if the room was spinning in circles. "You can't settle for _that_." I thought of Jude, Richard and the baby. "You need _love_ to make a family."

"That's pretty rich coming from _you_," he said coolly.

Didn't understand what he meant by that, and I said so.

"The _note_, Bridget," he said, rather pointedly. "You never called, remember? The message was very clear, then and on the beach."

Now was _really_ lost. If hadn't known better would think he'd had a few shots more in him. "Why do you keep bringing up that note, Mark?" I asked in exasperation. "What does Rudyard Bloody Kipling have to do with anything—especially this?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" he asked, almost angrily.

Realised still had note/poem in my wallet, so reached into handbag, got out wallet, got out tatty and careworn thing and handed it to him. He read through it.

"This is 'If'," he said as he looked back up to me.

"Yes," I said slowly. "_This_ is what you gave to me after the fiasco with the broken vase and the shatterproof dolphin."

He stared at it again. Said nothing. Carefully he folded it up, handed it to me, and then, calmly, without a word, got up and left the pub.

Do not understand what happened, though he was clearly upset enough to stick me with the bar tab. Not that couldn't cover it, but v. unlike him. Now am in summer nightie, have just had pathetic singleton dinner of frozen mini-pizzas and box wine (yes, _again_). Want to cry—am sure he has gone off to propose and will never see him again. Certainly will not be invited to wedding after that conversation.

_8.10 pm._ Entryphone has just gone off. Have no idea who it could be.

_Later._ Oh my God.


	8. Chapter 8: If you can bear to hear

**If—**

By S. Faith, © 2013  
Words: 53,952 (in 10 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 8: "If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken…"**

Saturday, 31 July

_8st ? (not important); calories: do not care; alcohol units: not worth recording_

_6.30 am._ Entryphone was Mark Darcy. Voice sounded rough, almost emotional. "Need to talk to you."

Felt like saying that he'd had a funny way of showing it, deserting self at the pub as he had, but was too curious to know why he'd left that way. Buzzed lock to let him in, put light dressing gown on to meet him.

Once in flat had curious feeling that he was looking at me as if scrutinising every move. Did not know what to say, and since he said he needed to talk to me, waited for him to begin. At long last, he did.

"It was a mistake," he said, puzzling me. "The note, I mean. That's not what I meant to give you."

"It wasn't?"

He shook his head. "I was writing at the desk. I think you saw me; I think my father even commented on it." I did recall Malcolm mentioning Mark was writing his will or something. "I don't know what happened in the confusion of the vase fiasco, but somehow the note I'd written got swapped with… my father's copy of 'If'."

Felt heart in throat. "Then what did you mean to give me?"

"A note," he began, voice uncharacteristically quiet, "saying that I wasn't with Rebecca because I didn't love her. That if you still had feelings for me to call me… but that we could just be friends if I didn't hear from you, and I'd respect that."

Was absolutely stunned. A note! Of course I hadn't called. Hadn't known I should. Of course would have! More than anything, though, I was angry: "But you left me for Rebecca!"

"You left _me_, Bridget," he said sadly. "I called to talk to you about everything… and you dismissed me with cruel, unkind words to the sound of the derisive laughter of your friends in the background."

Stomach went icy. Remembered regretting saying those words as soon as had said them, egged on by Sharon and Jude. Looked down to hands, which I'd begun wringing. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

"So you see," he said, "when you said to me that I was making a terrible mistake wanting to propose to Lavinia, that I needed to marry for _love_, it felt like you were mocking me in the meanest possible way." He paused, then went on: "Because I thought you knew how I felt about you, even if you didn't feel the same."

Reluctantly I looked up to meet his gaze. Was, as usual, v. difficult to read, whilst was reeling from this revelation. "How you felt?" I echoed.

"How I _feel_," he said evenly. "Nothing has changed."

Heart pounded so hard could hear pulse in ears; suddenly the scene on the beach had changed radically. Made so much more sense. He'd been broaching subject of the note he thought I'd got, testing to see if I still wanted only to be friends after that wonderful day—wonderful _week!_—and without knowing, I had shot him down again. Bloody Kipling.

He came towards me with his hand extended, then took both of mine in his. Did not say anything to prompt his action, but suppose in retrospect the tears flooding down my cheeks spoke volumes.

Looked up into his eyes. Was lovely to see such warmth there. "I would have called," I said quietly.

Everything is a blur from there. A sense of being in his arms. Of a long, slow, reverent yet passionate kiss for which have been aching for over three years. Of dressing gown, nightie, shirt, trousers, etc. being shed without conscious thought (though sense of finger pads and hands on breasts and thighs and bottom is burned forever into skin), of remaining carrier bags from recent shopping trip being pushed aside off of bed as we fell onto it. Of…

Well. Not being a celibate anymore. (_Hurrah!_)

Afterward, found self desperate for breath, heart racing again as rested in his arms, nuzzling securely against his throat. We snuggled and kissed before passion sparked again… well into wee hours. Repeatedly (!). Did not even mind/care that was warm July night, when ordinarily would have not wanted to be pressed up to the heat of another human being. We mused and giggled that sun was rising… before going at it again.

Mark now totally exhausted after all that activity (may be saying too much, but: he always was fonder of more traditional position, and was in no, er, position to argue as enjoyed v. much being totally ravished) and know that I should be too, but am too, too excited and happy that things have turned out better than could have ever thought, given everything that had happened. Given previous twenty-four hours!

Gah! Have just heard stern calling of name. Best go to see what is wrong. Hoping to be scolded, truth be told.

_8.45 am._ Ah. Ahahaha. Think it is possible we have set record regarding number of shags. Rather, lovemaking. Mark hates the word 'shag'.

Mmm. Love to watch him sleeping.

_9.10 am._ Without opening eyes he said, "Are you trying to wake me with thought vibes?"

"No."

"Liar."

Laughed. Snogged again. Then….

Wonder if there is category in Guinness World Records. Think will ask Mark.

_10.15 am._ He laughed, pulled me close, and said, "Even if there's not, I don't mind pretending there is." Then, quietly, more seriously: "Got some making up to do yet."

Love Mark Darcy. Told him so.

_12.30 pm._ Woke shortly after that from sleepy doze to the sound of ringing somewhere in flat… woke both of us, actually. Realised with dread it was Mark's mobile. Reality of what had happened crashed around me. Mark technically had current girlfriend that was not me.

He did not answer it, but could tell he was on same wavelength re: Cow's-Bottom. Stroked my hair, kissed my temple, held me close. "It's you I love, and have for a very long time," he said. "But I have a bit of a mess to clean up."

Felt lower lip quiver. "You hadn't actually proposed, had you?"

He laughed quietly. "No. And thank God for that."

"Yeah," I said in teasing tone, though there was kernel of a real fear in what said next: "If you had, you probably would have gone through with it out of obligation."

He was quiet. "I do want to get married," he said thoughtfully. "Have children. I guess I'll just have to keep looking." Turned to look at him, saw him smirking, and thought about getting a pillow to buffet him with, but was too tired to move.

"Suppose you'll just have to settle for me in the meantime," I said, not thinking what was really saying when said it. 'Settle' was what had said about Cow's-Bottom. Felt skin turn pink.

"If by 'settling' you mean 'waiting for the person you'd really wanted all along', then yes, Bridget. I'm settling." Leaned over and kissed me. "Sorry, I suppose that isn't very romantic."

"Are you mad? That was totally romantic," I said.

"Okay, then it wasn't very clear," he said, tracing a finger along my brow. Closed eyes under the soft touch. "Say yes and make me a happy man."

"You're right," I said, still in the dark (metaphorically as well as literally, with eyes closed in sheer bliss), or perhaps shag drunk. "It wasn't very clear."

"Bridget," he said.

Opened eyes again to see plaintive look on his face.

"You're the one I want," he said.

Blinked in my shock. Found self had gone dumb.

"To marry, I mean," he added quickly. "I know it seems rash but I've been thinking about it for almost three years. Rather… about you."

Tongue felt thick in mouth. To hear the words…. Suddenly didn't know what to say except, "I know." Shag marathon… now proposal, for real this time, not drunkenly offered business/arranged-marriage-type scenario. _It _is_ all going so fast_, I thought, feeling slightly hysterical inside—then thought about long-ago proposed rules of dating, and wanted to find written draft and burn it. Rules should be:

Be friends for a while first, e.g. three years.

Shag all night in burst of pent-up sexual desire, resolution of tension, clearing up of misunderstandings and similar.

Get married, have babies, etc.

To that amazingly articulate "I know," added, "Yes," but it took him a moment to realise was not merely acknowledging I'd heard him, but was accepting offer to settle.

Was imperative to then have celebratory shag. Now watching him sleep again while writing, not focusing any thought vibes. Deserves to rest. Will wake him in a bit, though, after have brought throwback-type sandwich lunch with coffee to bedroom. Then can have shower, then can deal with cleaning up the mess. Namely, Cow's-Bottom.

_3 pm._ Whilst in shower, tried to insist should go with him re: Lavinia, but he insisted not. "This is something I have to do on my own," he said. "Your being there will only make her feel like we're ganging up on her."

"She's an adult, a… what was it? Judge?"

"I'm still going to be dealing her an emotional blow," he said. "Wounded pride. I don't want her to lash out at you. Nothing about this is your fault." He grinned a little. "Well, unless you want to take the blame for me not being able to fall out of love with you."

Smacked at him with soaped-up shower pouf. Made me wonder though, could not help thinking: Three years—three _years_! Assorted girlfriends (him) and boyfriends (me), encouraging one another and giving relationship advice, when all that time we were both pining for each other. Amazing to think of.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Surely you're not feeling guilty for—"

"No, no, not that at all," I said. Looked up at him, blinking against the spray shimmering off of his head that formed a sort of halo. "It's just that we're both a couple of complete morons, and our poor children don't stand a chance in the world."

"I… what?"

"Don't say 'what', Mark," I teased. Then I explained, and he took me in his arms for a long embrace under the hot water.

Now he's gone off to have that conversation. Am charged to produce dinner. Procure, more like. Am in no mood to cook, plus v. sure things would burn whilst in shag-fugue state.

_3.30 pm._ Oh God. Wait until my mother hears. Though unsure if she will be happy or not, as is still resentful after Portugal. Surely happy.

_3.35 pm._ What if Lavinia is in love with Mark, and turns into Glenn Close/_Fatal Attraction_-style stalker? Do not wish to find bunny in pot.

_3.38 pm._ Though do not have bunny. Surely Mark's housekeeper's son no longer has bunny, either. Must remember to ask.

_10.30 pm._ When Mark came back at about half six, he looked completely shattered. Had got takeaway but made decision that it could wait, and sat on sofa to comfort him in my arms.

"Sorry," I said quietly, combing my fingers through his hair.

"Nothing for you to be sorry for." He sighed.

"I'm sorry for you. I'm sure that was tough."

"I feel terrible," he said, "for not feeling worse. I'm sure she will rebound."

Swallowed hard and asked if she was in love with him.

"I don't think so. No," he said. "She was looking to, er, settle too." He looked up at me. "I should not have started seeing her again."

"Then why did you ask me if you should?"

"Because I wanted to be sure you really only wanted to be friends." He looked a bit sheepish. "I thought you would have said no if you wanted more." His face screwed up in confusion. "What did you mean on the beach, then?"

Thought back to dream-like scene at bonfire, and began to chuckle. "I thought you wanted me to force my heart and nerve and sinew. You know."

At this he laughed, and laughed hard, hugging me tightly to him. Then kissed me and told me again how much he loved me and had missed me. Was about to say hadn't gone anywhere, but realised he meant over last month. Or in different sort of way.

Then we really started to talk, as we got dinner out. Told him all about how poem had got me through Thailand, which opened the door for me to ask about what had happened with Rebecca.

He looked sheepish. "After you chucked me—" He held up his hand and quickly added, "I know, I know, you weren't intending to, really, but this is what I thought at the time—I started going to all of those things with her, thinking that she was still your friend and on your side, in the hopes you would be there too. Any 'relationship' we might have had was all in her mind."

"And Gloucestershire, in July?" I asked, hopeful.

Now he looked even more sheepish. "That was a mistake," he said, taking my hand and squeezing tight. "I was so wrapped up in being so near to you yet so impossibly far, I didn't have the wherewithal to protest, nor… resist." Scowled in confusion at him, trying to catch his meaning, but then got it. Mouth dropped open. "Please don't be angry," he said. "My thoughts were of you." He smiled. "Plus… she was a terrible shag, and it never happened again."

"Never?"

"Never. Not for a lack of her trying. She tried to rope me into going to Tuscany, but after what she put poor Giles through… I really put my foot down. That's when she guessed."

"Guessed what?"

"That I was still hopelessly in love with you."

Thought back to our post-relationship friendship—Mark and me, obviously—and realised that he had always tried to keep me from talking to her. Remembered scene at drinks party, of Mark demanding what she'd said to me, then sending me away in manner of misbehaving teenager, but understood now why with vivid clarity. He didn't want to subject me to jellyfishing or to giving me her delusional, psychotic version of events. Recalled what she said about my trying to trap Mark…

"And what _about_ Giles?" I asked.

"She was only going out with him to try to make me jealous. When it didn't work…"

"Poor Giles," I said. "Getting used like that."

"I'd think 'poor Giles' only if he were still with her. That maniac." He smiled at me, then began to laugh. I did too.

"So," I began with a mad grin; tried to sound nonchalant but in schadenfreude-type way really wanted to know: "She really was terrible?"

He nodded, then smirked back. "An inflatable doll would have been more responsive." My eyes went wide, so he added, "I mean, that's only a speculation on my part." His face went bright red. "Sorry, wasn't very gentlemanly of me to say—"

Hardly heard it as had begun to howl with laughter; threw arms around him and, well, dinner got a bit cold again. Felt v. pleased, though, to have to following murmured into ear, re: responsiveness: "Could never say the same about you, darling."

_10.55 pm._ Now thinking back to everything, especially over the past year, that happened between two of us and seeing it in whole new light. All those times wanted to kiss him—okay, shag him—now wonder did he want the same. (Have decided probably. Yes.) Still have loads of questions, but not important at present. For now, all is well. All is good.

GAH!

_Later._ Was Mark, scaring living hell out of self. Had good reason. Still trembling.

"Sorry to scare you," he said, "but I forgot something."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm," he said. "Picked up something while I was out. Meant to give it to you earlier."

Thinking was chocolate bar, bottle of wine or similar due to flippant tone, I said, "All right, let's have it." Held out hand in demanding fashion.

"Close your eyes." Did so. "Other hand." Held out left hand.

"Really Mark, this is a bit—"

Turned hand over, felt something slide into place on ring finger. Nearly screamed as opened eyes. Thing on finger was beautiful diamond number with sapphires! But at same time was terrified, as afraid was worth more than flat.

Unfortunately the first thing said was, "What if I lose it?"

Gave me v. stern look.

"Sorry, sorry, it's…" Was at loss of how to describe. Leaned over and embraced him instead.

"Don't worry," he teased. "It's not a hand-me-down. Bought this especially for you."

"When?" I asked.

"After my talk with Lavinia."

"What?!"

"The conversation actually didn't last very long," he said, "and I knew exactly what I wanted to get you."

Tears filled eyes. "It's perfect," I said.

"Oh, good," he said, then cupped my cheek with a hand to demand payment for such a bauble. Only too happy to oblige.

So now am sitting and staring at sparkling thing on hand. Cannot believe all that has happened in last day.

Sunday, 1 Aug

_8st 7 (shagging v. g. exercise); calories: 2200; alcohol units: 4 (2 with champagne brunch!)_

_10.30 am._ Good God. Mark is scaring self a bit. First thing said this morning was wanting to know when might be good date to get married.

"Mark," I said. "There's no hurry." Added as joke, "Unless you're going to be denied some kind of legacy if you don't have a wife."

"I just want everything settled as soon as possible."

V. like him, to be honest. Patted hand. "I'll think about it."

He is just gone home for fresh clothes and to shave, then coming back for me to take me out to brunch. Said it would give me time to get ready, so had better do so.

_11.55 am. _When arrived he asked if I had made a decision yet. Gave him long stare. "Are you out of your mind?" I asked. "No!"

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Now I've got you back…"

Fear he's gone mad. Or turned into seventeen-year-old girl planning fantasy wedding.

_3 pm._ Champagne brunch was fan_tas_tic. Felt so posh and pampered.

One potential awkward moment: saw Lavinia come in, and totally froze in panic as expected possible hostage situation or similar. But she was smiling, did not see the pair of us, and was with a man that Mark clearly recognised. He muttered that the man was another barrister, a bachelor about his own age.

"Well," I said drolly, "she's rebounding, all right."

He turned and looked to me, then smiled, and as if reading my mind, said, "I guess the bunny is safe."

Is a bit terrifying that he knows self so well.

As we were leaving, though, heard self's own name being called. Looked over. Was my mother! Gawped in shock to realise was having brunch with…

"Hello, Mother, Mrs Jones," said Mark.

"Mark," Mum said. She was smiling. Smiling! Hurrah! "Wonderful to see you. We were just having a bit of a—" Dead silence, then, "Bridget, what have you got there?"

Her fingers grasped my left wrist. She had seen the ring.

"Oh!" said the two mothers simultaneously as they stared at it, then looked to each other, then back up to us. Both had exact same 'Explain yourselves!' expression on face. Newspaper headline flashed in head: Brutal Daytime Murder of Two at Posh Hotel Restaurant.

"This only happened yesterday," I said. "I _swear_. You're the first to know."

"But…" Knew my mum all too well. She had a million questions, starting with 'When did you start seeing each other again?' and 'You're not going to sleep with him, are you, Bridget?'

"Only yesterday," repeated Mark with a smile. "If you'll pardon us… hope you enjoy the rest of your brunch."

Mum was not going to like being brushed off like this. Not at all. Did not have the chance to say anything more, though. Surely will hear all about it later.

"And the lines to Grafton Underwood and Huntingdon are burning as we speak," quipped Mark as he grasped my hand. Suddenly realised all of that did not matter. His hand in mine was what mattered.

_4.45 pm._ Finally have got perfect boyfriend/future husband, and am fighting urge to smother him with pillow. Asked again about potential date for wedding. Glared at him. "But Bridget," he said. "These things take time, and without a date, you can't really start to plan."

"What about you?" I countered, thinking I would catch him flatfooted and sputtering to answer. "Which date would you want to pick?"

"New Year's Eve," he said almost instantly. "With a grand party to kick off the new year."

Stared at him, surprised. He had clearly given this a lot of thought. Either that, or had potential Groomzilla on hands. Surprisingly, though, sort of loved it as idea. "With a buffet dinner service at the reception?" I asked, then added, "Turkey curry?"

He laughed. "I love the symmetry of that idea," he said, "since that's where we first met."

Oh God, have created monster.

_10.35 pm._ Have just said goodbye to Mark; he had to go home and do a bit of work before bed. Surprised me how difficult it was to see him go, though knew was temporary situation. Have got v. spoilt over this incredible weekend. Miss having him here next to me. (Though, obviously, not while writing in diary.)

Looks like New Year's Eve day is going to be the day. He is going to start making arrangements. Am I v. bad bride for not doing so for self?

Ooh, telephone.

_11.15 pm._ On phone was Jude, who was insomniac, doing load of baby laundry and figured I would still be awake so rang me up. "So how's it going with you?" she asked, hinting she was looking for vicarious thrill away from newborn baby care. Could hear washing action in background.

Took deep breath and gave her whole story, from drinks in pub all the way to probable New Year's Eve wedding extravaganza. She did not interrupt once. Do not believe have ever left Jude so speechless. In fact, had to ask if she were still there.

"My God, Bridge!" she said at last. "I've got tears in my eyes. This is fantastic! I'm so pleased for you!"

Beamed a bit.

Then Jude said, "I mean really—it's about time."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Well, it became pretty obvious in recent months that he was still crazy about you."

Reeled as remembered conversation in which she had insisted that this was obviously not the case. "You changed your mind about it and you didn't say anything?"

"Well, if he hadn't done anything about it for three years… I wasn't about to be the one to force anything, or make it weird for you if I was wrong." She laughed. "Glad to have been right!"

Hmm.

Monday, 2 Aug

_8st 7 (gravity not having any effect on self); calories: 1850; alcohol units: 2_

_9 am. At work._ Have had several comments on ring and have only just arrived. Most common comment: "I didn't even know you were seeing anyone." Do not feel like getting into whole convoluted thing with colleagues.

_9.45 am._ Taylor the intern currently in bad books. Saw was engaged, offered congrats, then asked, "First marriage?"

"Yes," I said.

"Ah," she asked. "Gonna have kids?"

"Hope so."

Pause, then, "Ohh. Well, good luck!"

OK. Am sure was meant in positive manner, but really. Am not exactly geriatric.

_1.30 pm._ Had phone call from Shaz at 11.45 wanting to know if we were still on for lunch. Had totally forgotten. Met her at Café Rouge. She took one look at hand (what makes people's eyes zoom in on ring as if were emitting homing beacon or similar?) and her mouth fell open.

"What the ever-living fuck, Bridge?" she said, but was grinning. She tapped her finger to her lips. "Hmmm. Who ever could the lucky man be?"

Was tempted to throw random name at her, but could not think of one quickly enough, so said simply, "Mark."

"I knew it! I knew it!" she exploded. "About fucking time, too."

Could not believe ears. "What do you mean?" I asked, feeling curious sense of déjà vu.

"Well, _Jesus_, Bridge, I swear he had a puppy-dog expression whenever he was with you lately, especially in Provence. Seemed pretty obvious—"

"That he was still crazy about me," I finished. "That's _exactly_ what Jude said. Did you… did you all discuss this when I wasn't there?"

"We… might have done."

"But you didn't intervene."

"Well, durr, no. He seemed to be in denial, and you…" She trailed off.

"What?"

"You seemed comfortable with the way things were."

Couldn't be too upset. After all, had presented face to the world the way I wanted it seen. Was own fault. At least was happy ending.

"So…" She waggled her eyebrows. "What was it like?"

Played ignorant: "Don't know what you're talking about."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Bridget. Three years of unresolved sexual tension and feeeeeelings," she said in an exaggerated manner. "Did the earth move?"

Heat flooded skin. She laughed. Bloody Shazzer.

_7.10 pm. My flat._ Tom just rang up.

"I knew it would happen! And about bloody time," he said. Did not comment on this apparent prescience as already knew why he thought so. "Heard about that ring. Am so bloody jealous."

Laughed. "The ring's not really your style."

"I don't mean the ring, Bridgeline," he said; tried to keep light tone in voice, but could tell he seemed troubled. "I mean jealous… of him."

"Tom!" I said, joking, "Are you a closet heterosexual?"

He laughed half-heartedly. "I just don't want to—"

Knew what he was going to say. "Tom, you are not going to lose me as a friend. Will always be here, as I always have been. Now tell me about you. How are you?"

With that floodgates opened. Had been toying with idea of seeing Jerome again. Told him under no circumstances was that a good idea. "Maybe you should go and visit Carl," I suggested.

Could hear him burst into tears (slightly melodramatic, but not faked). "It's all so confusing," he said. "Why can't things be as easy as they were for you and Mark?"

Easy? Nothing about ending up with Mark was easy, and was about to say same to Tom, but figured there was no point. "Tom, it'll be all right. It'll work out. I just know it."

"Do you really think?"

Had no bloody idea, but radiated confidence that it would. Not that he could see over telephone. But he seemed reassured and happy when we ended call.

Oh, entryphone. Hope it is Mark with dinner.

_11 pm._ When Mark came in, he set down bags and took me up in his arms as he turned me in a circle and gave me a kiss. Felt giddy with happiness and delightful sense of déjà vu. "So good to see you," he murmured as he set me down. He'd brought Thai tonight so we had that with some wine. Should not have had big serving of carb-laden rice noodles, but also figured would work off excess calories in short order.

Soon as food was gone he cleared away packaging, then leaned over to kiss me, fingers already traversing lower hem of skirt. Had sudden moment of panic and tensed up. Am sure went deathly pale too: understandable as remembered had not been on Pill in months, nor had a single Durex packet been torn into. How had I not thought of this? How had neither of us?

Mark noticed and asked, "Darling, what is it?"

"You and me…" I began. "You know."

"Unfortunately, I don't," he said.

"We didn't use protection."

First signs of dismay: slightly raised brows. "But you…"

I shook my head. "I went off it after…" Blushed. "Splitting from Eric. Have been celibate for months." Cleared throat. "Before the weekend, obviously."

He looked a bit pale, too. "Never even thought…"

"Nor did I."

"I shouldn't have assumed…"

"Don't worry, though," I said brightly. "I've been very safe. Aside from this."

"So have I," he said. "Oh, God, Bridget. I'm sorry. We've been at it like rabbits for days."

Could not help self. Started to giggle. He smiled then laughed too.

"If it turns out you're… well." He went serious. "We'll decide what to do."

"What?"

"Well…" he said again. "When Jude was in labour you told me to shoot you if you ever, and I quote, expressed the need to have one of those things—"

Turns out that Mark was traumatised at the idea that I would never want to have a child. Had helped him make up his mind to ask the Cow's-Bottom to marry him. Vile, horrible thought. Set him straight with a reassuring pat, let him know had been kidding… then a gave him a long kiss in order to reignite passion.

Couldn't stay the night, unfortunately, as morning logistics forbade it. Do wonder though at possibility of being pregnant. Giant belly would surely make shopping for wedding dress a challenge.

_Later_. Though by the end of December, would only be… five months? Wouldn't show too much, would I?

_Later still._ Aside from evidence of pregnancy, Mum would surely know, wouldn't she, that I'd slept with Mark Darcy? Surely she does not think am virgin. Surely.

Tuesday, 3 Aug

_8st 8 (v. solid phantom); calories: 2100 (just in case); alcohol units: 0 (just in case)_

_7.30 am. My flat._ Was feeling a bit knackered so rang up Grant to say would work from home. Swear he chuckled. Did not, however, lose my cool and say to him was not in fact staying home to shag new fiancé.

Oh. Entryphone. Bit early for that, isn't it?

_7.35 am._ Debating pros and cons of making key to flat for Mark Darcy. Con: would still come at mad hour of morning. Pro: would be able to let himself in. And is fiancé.

_10.30 am._ Appeared with paper carrier bag from chemist or similar, then thrust it at me.

"What's this?" I asked. Still had not had coffee or breakfast. Difficult to think in such state.

"Do it. The most sensitive test I could find," he said. Looked in bag. Started to laugh.

"Mark," I said. "Even if I had got up the spout on Friday night, it's only Tuesday. The most sensitive tests need at least a week, I think."

He looked utterly crestfallen. "Are you sure?"

"It's not the first—" Abruptly stopped talking.

"Not the first what?" he asked.

Face went red hot. "I have had scares before, you know."

Now he looked shocked. Couldn't help but laugh.

"Obviously they hadn't been positive tests, Mark," I said reassuringly, rolling the top of the bag closed. "I'll try on Saturday. How's that?" Felt like was promising an ice cream cone to a Dickensian street urchin if he didn't misbehave.

"All right," he said, though didn't sound happy about it. Dawning realisation washed over his face. "But… wait. Scares before? With me?"

"No," I said. Wild horses could not persuade me, in this lifetime or any other, to tell him about the scare with a certain fuckwit.

"Oh," he said. "I guess that makes me happy." He grinned. "That you didn't hide anything like that from me." Furrowed his brow again. "Why aren't you getting ready for work?"

"Feeling a bit puny," I said. "Working from home today."

This renewed his hope again, and his eyes went bright. "Morning sickness?"

Wanted to laugh again, but was not appropriate. "Not likely," I said. Hated bursting his bubble again and again. "If Jude's to be believed it's about six weeks in or so." Remembered tales of bowl-hovering just after she'd found out. "Mark," I said in total seriousness. "I really don't want you to be disappointed, so please don't hang too many hopes on this test." Explained that it was not the most fertile time of month as had recently finished cycle, though did so in manner meant to not terrify a man. Thought too of Jude's repeated tries, of how it took her so long to get sprogged up. Think it was more than a year.

He nodded. "I know. I'm just so bloody eager."

Found self chuckling; once he decides on something, he wants all the details done as soon as possible. Like wedding. "There's always the honeymoon," I said with a wink.

Kissed me then had to go despite dearest wish he would carry me off to bed… not for shagging but for cuddle as really did not feel all that good. Okay. Not _just_ for shagging.

Saturday, 7 Aug

_8st 9 (body determined to store reserves regardless, it seems); calories:1800 (feels like twice as much); alcohol units: 0 (Attila the Hun will not let self)_

_10.30 am._ Shit. Have just been shouted at by Mark Darcy for forgetting to use test, as apparently first wee of day is best wee to use. (Think he has been doing research. Brainy v. sexy.)

_11.45 am._ Have just realised no retaliation by Mum (verbal lashing via phone or similar) for Sunday's (what she would think of as) brushoff. Perhaps Elaine Darcy has had a word with her. Hope so.

_9.30 pm._ Had v. fun day (despite initial shouting) doing fantasy shopping for future offspring. Nice long walk up and down Oxford Street, staring in all the windows. Caught Mark with gooey expression again. V. sweet. Will make v. g. father, as previously noted, despite Tory leanings. (Child will have self's influence. Balance in all things.)

Then we went for dinner; Italian, though Mark vetoed anything with seafood in it. And absolutely no wine, not even teeny bit. (Good thing already gave up smoking!)

He's staying over. Hurrah! Tomorrow will not forget to do test. Promised Mark.

Sunday, 8 Aug

_8st 9 (stubborn); calories: 2350 (gorging); alcohol units: still 0_

_7.45 am._ Double shit. Have forgotten again!

_2.30 pm._ Lunch with the Urban Family. Felt v. emotional to have all friends there—Shaz, Simon, Jude/Richard/Rusty, Tom, Magda, Jeremy—with Mark and feel like we all did in Provence (well, except Rusty not yet born) only much closer. Mark is still friend, obviously—best friend, actually, though would never say so to Tom's face. Though would be weird, surely, if fiancé was _not_ best friend?

Though was horrifying moment after lunch where Jude pulled out mobile and started showing pictures of the baby, pictures that no one in their right mind should be taking (of baby's first poo, to give an example), let alone sharing. Looked up to catch Mark looking back at self with wide eyes and pale skin. Stifled laugh.

Stopped by Mark's house to pick up overnight bag, and suit/briefcase/etc. V. confusing, as he does not usually plan to stay overnight for beginning of work week. "I have a plan," he said.

Monday, 9 August

_8st ? 9st at this point? (afraid to look); calories: 2100; alcohol units: still 0_

_7.00 am._ Went to use loo pre-alarm-going-off to find that Mark had, after self had gotten into bed, put stack of metal cookware (sauce pans, etc.) in stack in front of loo door. Did not knock them over, but did at least remember to wee on stick.

Now to wait three minutes.


	9. Chapter 9: An Embarrassment of Riches

**If—**

By S. Faith, © 2013  
Words: 53,952 (in 10 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 9: An Embarrassment of Riches**

Monday, 9 August (cont.)

_7.10 am._ Still in loo. Reading test proving more difficult than anticipated. Do not wish to incorrectly read as per previous fiasco.

_7.15 am._ Knock on loo door startled life out of self.

"Bridget, everything okay in there?"

"Yeah," I said back. "Just… doing the test."

Silence. Then, attempt at nonchalance: "Oh?"

Suppose should let him in. Maybe he can read test. So afraid, though, of letting him down, even though is nothing under my direct control.

_9.30 am._ Still in flat. Still in shock. Have apparently achieved impossible though miracle double egg release or similar.

Mark took test from hand, squinted, consulted packaging from box (with distinct 'Why didn't _you_ think of that?' air about him)… then grinned a mile wide.

"It's a positive," he said. "According to this, you're pregnant."

Heard blood rushing in ears as he went on, though did not hear him. He took my arm and brought me back to sit on bed. "You don't seem very pleased," he said, his face v. sad indeed.

"I am, I am," I assured. "Just _really_ surprised."

"Me too," he said, smiling again, then he hugged me. "Darling," he said tenderly, but then sat bolt upright again. "Oh, God. Should we push the wedding up?"

Chuckled. Hadn't even got a dress yet. "Sure it will be fine," I said, then explained research on how much might be—or rather, _would_ be—showing at five months.

Swear he seemed happier at news of child than of accepting of marriage proposal. But know is just one blessing on top of another, and not that he views me as mere vessel of heir or similar. Took me in arms, held me tight and kissed me. Think he was crying. Love him for it.

Now he's gone out, said he would be back. Told me to ring up work to tell them would not be available. Not sure if he meant for morning or rest of life. Will play it safe and tell Grant will just be in later.

_9.45 am._ Have just had mild panic attack at thought of telling family and friends about not only engagement but baby in such short order. Hope they do not assume the latter precipitated the former. Perhaps will wait to share news of pregnancy until have concrete confirmation from doctor—should help make it seem less like shotgun wedding.

_2.30 pm._ Bliss. Mark returned with items to make splash-out brunch. Was v. lovely. Got to talk a bit more about things and several revelations came to light:

Was right. WAS RIGHT! Many times when thought he was repulsed by self (such as night at cinema, Valentine's Day, after returning from Rome w/souvlaki, etc.), he was actually holding himself back not wanting to cross lines of propriety. In fact, night of promotion to Austen project, he was all set to renew romantic intentions due to location of dinner. And of course the ice cream and the beach in France. Poor Mark.

In fact, at fancy do just after the New Year, disappointment was at lack of little black dress he liked so much, not in size of bottom. Relief.

Night of pillow fight over Austen series, Mark went all stiff and formal because he'd gone, er, all stiff. Said to me, "I was so sure you felt it... and I was mortified at the thought I'd caused you offence." Could not help laughing though tried v. hard to effect a sympathetic expression.

The flat in New York was not a colleague's at all, but a rental-type object! Explains lack of personal items. Am a bit relieved to be honest that it wasn't that friend was sociopath or similar. Asked him why he went through the trouble; resulting smile reminded me of Hintlesham Hall that first Christmas Day.

Rebecca. Confirmed his conversation with her after he'd sent me to car like naughty child was to warn her to stop tormenting me… and that he was not interested in her and never would be again.

Biggest surprise of all: Lavinia's ultimatum, which was that Mark could no longer see me as friend! Know how he feels about ultimatums in general, but he had still picked me over her. Wish had known. Would have thrown self at him.

Still won't tell me what I said during drunken call, though.

_9.30 pm._ Mark abruptly asked over dinner tonight, "Bridget, why don't you just move in with me as soon as possible?"

Stared blankly at him for some time. Yes, will want to actually live with husband, but this seemed a bit sudden. "Why?" I asked at last.

He looked a bit hurt. "What do you mean, 'why?'"

Quickly apologised. "I mean what's the hurry? We're not on a deadline."

"There are too many stairs up to your flat," he said.

Laughed at that. "And that multi-storey house does not have stairs?"

"What if you want milk in the night?" he asked.

Shook my head, still chuckling. "Mark, I'm pregnant, not in a full body cast."

He pursed his lips and went back to eating.

Thought that was end of issue, but fear may have hurt his feelings more than thought, because he said he had to go home as court appearance early morning meant bathroom logistics would be impossible.

_10.35 pm._ After some deliberation, rang Mark's mobile. He picked up, sounded a bit groggy. Surely hadn't gone to sleep already. Surely.

"Yes, I was sleeping," he said with a sigh. "What is it?"

"Just wanted to make sure you weren't upset with me. I mean, truly upset."

"Of course not," he said. "I was just hoping for a more positive reaction to the suggestion of moving in together."

Had to laugh. Lightly though. "Mark, unless you've been given a week to live, we really don't need to rush."

Heard him exhale, but not say anything. God. What if he _had_ only been given a week to live? But then he spoke. "I'm sorry," he said. "Just feel like we're behind schedule."

Did not understand. "What schedule?"

"If we hadn't split," he said, "we probably would already be married and on our second child."

Felt heart want to burst with love. "What do you say," I said, "to me coming over to your house?"

Insisted on coming back to pick me up. So will pack a bag and get laptop. Can work from his home as easily as my own. Plus has huge bed devoid of discarded clothing, hosiery packaging, and similar.

Friday, 13 August

_8st 11 (oh dear); calories: 2100; alcohol units: 0 until further notice_

_9 am. Mark Darcy's house._ Has been awfully posh and wonderful staying here this week. Well, have been going to office too, but today working from home, and have also been getting clean clothes and other things from flat, but more or less here whole week. Is almost like being in five-star hotel only can walk around comfortably in dressing gown with mad hair and not fear arrest or similar. Housekeeper comes to clean, do some laundry, etc. on Monday and Thursday (during which she also cooks up meals for freezer—had no idea!).

Have also been pampered beyond all reason by Mark. Not that he was any slouch in this department in the past, but (to give example) has taken to massaging feet (which will surely appreciate more as girth expands), extended snuggling and canoodling on sofa before bed, bringing breakfast up in morning…

Maybe Mark has point re: moving in. Is awful to have to plan and decide who's staying where on which night, though typically we end up my flat; hate Mark having to drag himself out of cosy post-coital bed, into shocking cool of night air and car to go home to big, empty, lonely bed. Am sure he hates it too. (Plus, much bigger bathroom here, so bathroom logistics not an issue.)

Though love my flat and will miss it. But would have to go sometime, as is unlikely scenario that we could live together in my flat. Could probably keep three wives and ten children in Holland Park house and none would know of others' existence.

_8.15 pm._ Just post-dinner. Delicious, tender chicken, new potatoes and asparagus; filled to point of bursting. (Did not think would ever be able to stomach asparagus again after mouldering asparagus in fridge fiasco, but find self strangely craving it.) Mark serving up gelato or similar as made decision re: moving in.

"Mark, I'll do it."

"Do what?"

"I'll move in," I said. "Sooner than later, I mean."

He stopped what he was doing then looked to me. "Really?"

I nodded. "This week's been so nice."

He finished up serving, then brought dessert over, a sly little smile playing on his lips. "I have a confession to make," he said. "All week I've mounted a campaign designed to convince you to agree. My evil plan appears to have worked."

"Oh, really?" I asked. "And now that I have agreed… does this mean you won't keep up the pampering?"

"Of course I won't," he said. "You'll be confined to the kitchen as soon as the last box is in." Looked up with a smirk. If didn't know he was kidding, would have… well, no, as _do_ want possibility of future children.

So will spend next week boxing things up. He promises will come to help in evenings. Probably just wants to make sure am actually packing.

_Later._ Interesting conversation tonight. After dessert got ready for bed, got all tucked in under sheets and curled up in manner of spoons. Did not take long for gentle caresses and kisses just behind ear to get passion enflamed. Reminded wonderfully of that very first time we slept together in Hintlesham Hall, the unexpected yet pleasant surprise of how passionate Mark actually was (well, _is_) in bed, given stoic manner displayed previously.

In nirvana-esque post-coital state, Mark was clearly feeling a bit in need of confession. Started out innocently enough (well, as innocent as talking about shagging can be): "I had forgotten how wonderful this is."

Laughed lightly. "We only did this last night."

He laughed a little too, squeezing me for a moment. "Well, yes, but I mean 'this' in a broader sense," he said. "I'm sure you have no idea that I have never been able to…" He seemed to embarrassed to go on, so kissed tip of his nose in encouragement. "…I've never been able to really let go like I do when I'm with you."

"Let go?" I asked.

"You know," he said. "Fully shed all inhibitions. Everything feels right. Nothing feels perfunctory."

Swear was sweetest thing any man's ever said to self in bed. Suddenly felt very smug re: Cow's-Bottom; ruminated on my triumph for a bit before asking, "Really?"

"Absolutely, darling." Pause. "Though… who or what is 'cow's bottom'?"

Oh, God. Explained sheepishly to Mark and upon taking it in, he began laughing so hard I wondered could he breathe. "I feel mean for saying so," he said when he could speak at last, "but I don't think I'll ever be able to think of her again in any other way."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Oh, no need for apologies," he said, then kissed me again. Voice went all low and growly. Mm. "No need at all."

Should get back to bed before am missed. Hm. Has it really only been two weeks since shag explosion?

Sunday, 15 August

_8st 11 (holding the line); calories: 1950; heart attacks: 1 (maybe)_

_10.30 am. Mark Darcy's house._ Over breakfast this morning, Mark said, looking directly into my eyes, "I've changed my mind."

Dropped fork. Felt blood drain from head. Shakily I asked, "What?"

He burst out laughing. "Sorry." He reached over and took my hand. "I meant about moving in."

"That isn't an improvement."

Another laugh. "I just mean I don't think you should strain yourself. I think I should hire movers."

After recovered self (and restrained urge to toss coffee into lap—after all, as have said, want option of future children), simply raised chin. After that fright, fully intended to take him up on this offer, even though did not like to be thought of as that enfeebled. "Yes," I said in posh voice. "That sounds quite nice."

"Really?" he asked. "No argument?" Honestly, did not understand suspicious tone of voice.

"Yes, of course," I said.

"Terrific. I'll make some calls tomorrow. Oh, and so should you."

"Me? What for?"

"Your doctor," he said. "I'm bursting wanting to tell my mother and father."

Gave him big smile. He really was adorable about this whole thing.

Saturday, 4 September

_8st 13 (baby already taken control); calories: 2200 (eating for two); number of days since have had moment of rest: 21_

_11.30 am. __Mark Darcy's__ Our house (!)._ Am now fully moved in to Holland Park house with brief pause for Rusty's christening. Feels so exciting. Rather, feels nice to have had a long lie in, lounging in bed.

Presence of baby confirmed. Went up to Northamptonshire to deliver news in person over bank holiday weekend last weekend. Swore that my mother was going to crush life out of self; Dad wept a bit as he gave me hug, shook Mark's hand enthusiastically. Went over to see the Darcys. Pretty sure they got plastered after we left—also pretty sure they too (rather pessimistically) thought it would never happen.

So now am about five weeks along. Maybe should track waist size as weeks progress, but on other hand, may be too depressing to see large numbers.

_1.30 pm._ Has really sunk in now that am having baby. What if, like, forget and drink entire bottle of wine? Oh, God.

Should get ready. Bit late in day to start, but going shopping for wedding dress with Jude and Shaz. Oh, and baby Rusty. Must express importance of accommodating expanding waistline.

_9.30 pm._ Home. Completely exhausted. Have two dresses in mind, though, so is good.

_9.45 pm._ Have just remembered v. strange dream. Was about flat, which is now with estate agency for sale. In dream, am walking through empty rooms while hearing pitiful weeping. Cannot find source. Don't know what it can mean.

_10.15 pm._ Mentioned dream to Mark, asked him what he thought it meant.

He said, "It's obvious. You feel like you've abandoned your flat." He grinned. "But you can't well leave your flat in a shop."

"Oh my God!" I said. "Do you think it's lonely? Weeping in the dark? Maybe the dream is the only way it can reach out to me."

Simply gave me disbelieving look. Still, feel terrible.

Wednesday, 8 September

_9st (will be world's largest bride); calories: 1950 (but not all for self); circumference of waist: 35 inches (all up from here)_

_9.30 am. At work._ Curious realisation. Last night, Mark came home a little late and didn't call to tell me what was going on. And… it was all right. Didn't get angry. Didn't worry. Didn't obsess it was some other girl in Rebecca-like scenario. Didn't feel need to check and countercheck. Felt completely outside the whole dating war scenario. He knows absolutely everything about me—every embarrassing habit and with mad makeup or, worse yet, no makeup at all—and still loves me. And love and trust him. Can tell him everything. And he trusts in self ("…when all men doubt you"—Kipling poem rears ugly head when least expected).

Feel v. enlightened. Now understand why smug marrieds are smug. Though vow not to be smug married.

_7.35 pm._ Mark called to me as he came in. Found him in foyer in rather unhappy mood. "Bridget." Didn't even have to ask as was standing pointing at shoes in mid-floor. Kitten heels. Could not claim they were not mine.

"Sorry," I said, reaching to sweep up shoes had kicked off on way into house.

"It's one thing to keep saying sorry," he said with air of infinite patience. "It's another to put the shoes where they belong to begin with when you come in."

Felt a tiny bit like scolded child. "I know."

"I know you know," Mark said, then reached to take my hand. Smiled as he did so. "It's all right. Suppose I ought to get used to the idea of things scattered about the house underfoot."

Must be v. difficult for him to live in museum-like place then have disaster-area-creating self move in, with another on the way. Did he have any idea what he was getting into?

Friday, 10 September

_8st 9 (feels like v. weird see-saw); calories: 1900 (trying not to go overboard); circumference of waist: 35 inches (hurrah)_

_10.30 am._ Am in trouble. Had a bit of fun last night and feeling a bit evil, put a surprise into Mark's briefcase. Pair of pants that had been discarded in moment of passion. Has just rung me up to let me know he has found it. While in meeting with Tory-esque harrumphs. Oh dear.

_8 pm._ Came home to Mark awaiting my arrival. Instead of expected reprisals, was swept off of feet and brought up to bed. Before dinner!

But afterwards was given stern talking-to (hard to take seriously given what had just happened). V. v. v. sexy. Sample view:

"Bridget, you should know better than to drop personal items into my briefcase. I could bring it to court, for God's sake. I don't mind the inspired surprises, but the potential for embarrassment is far too high."

All this while nestled up to breast. Okay, more than nestled.

Thursday, 16 September

_8st 11 (v. concentrated in one area); calories: 1800; circumference of waist: 35¼ inches (and so it begins)_

_7.30 am._ V. pleasant (and surprising!) early morning romp before work. Mark could not seem to get enough of chest (despite being tender, enjoyed it v. much). Went so far as to compliment self on them, as if had never had opportunity to see or touch them before. Seemed extra horny. Though nice, was sort of strange, to be honest.

_7.45 am._ Oh my bloody God and fuck. Cannot close bra. Cannot go to work without bra!

_7.55 am._ Have rung up Grant to let him know must work from home. "Oh, pregnancy complications?" he asked. Realised then that it probably was! Told him yes, though did not go into detail.

Probably should get pregnancy-related self-help book. And some kind of reinforced maternity bra.

_8.05 am._ Am now imagining bolted steel girders holding up massive pregnancy chest, with flying buttresses and similar.

Oh. Have just heard Mark call for me to get ready for work. Better explain.

_8.45 am._ Mark seemed v. concerned re: lack of suitable bra. "Maybe you could get one for me?" I asked.

He looked stunned. "Don't you think that's something you should get fitted for?"

How am I supposed to go out and get fitted for bra, _sans_ bra? "Besides," I said as my _coup de grâce_, "this _is_ sort of your fault." So told him current size and projected size and he said he would try. Bless.

_7 pm._ Oh dear. Will wear giant granny-type bra to get nice maternity bra tomorrow. Will make sure to give Mark extra nice treat as a thank you.

Saturday, 18 September

_8st 11½ (downhill slide in effect); calories: 2100; circumference of waist: 35½ inches (as mentioned)_

_10.30 am._ V. excited at upcoming doctor appointment. First sonogram! May be able to hear heartbeat. Too early yet to tell if is boy or girl though.

_6 pm._ Tomorrow is dress fitting. Girls coming with me. Is all coming together!

Sunday, 19 September

_8st 11 (small victory, though do realise must, by default, gain weight); calories: 2200; circumference of waist: 35½ inches_

_9.30 pm._ Busy day. Wedding details to tend to, like picking out entrees and deciding on venue, though Mark has amazingly been taking care of all things. When asked him why, he said he had no intention of doing this again and wanted to make sure he'd got it all right.

Between more serious decision-making for wedding, we had on-going debate all day of whether baby would be boy or girl. Obviously will not really care in long run as will love any child of ours just the same, but have been forced to take up side for we women and feminism, whereas Mark took the side of men and (yuck) Etonian tradition. (Detected a bit of irony or sarcasm in tone. At least, better have.)

Wednesday, 29 September

_9st 1 (need to have word with self); calories: 2100 (but must tell self is not all for self); circumference of waist: 36 inches (slow creep)_

_8.30 am. _Appointment today for sonogram. Mark is beside himself. Is v. adorable.

_9.45 am._ Devastated phone call from Mark Darcy. He has got crisis situation at work and will be impossible for him to accompany me to appointment. Asked if I should call and cancel appointment and he said not to do so, but to bring him any and all imaging possible.

Will need to arrange minicab or similar as have got rid of shite car. (Truthfully not needed when riding in Mark's lovely thing most of time.)

_2 pm. At doctor's._ Appointment went well, though doctor seemed concerned at one point. "Something wrong?" I asked.

"No, no, nothing is wrong." Pause, then she turned back to me, said she wanted to do additional scan. Went to get additional things for that so am waiting. V. awkward sitting in exam chair and writing in diary.

_4.15 pm._ Have rung up Mark to tell him not to panic, but if he could, please come home as soon as possible. He said that he would.

_8 pm._ Mark came in (looking in fact panicked) about forty-five minutes after my call. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

"No," I said, feeling a bit shy. Had not at first not quite known how to drop this bombshell, but had decided on a more playful, circuitous route: "Remember how you said we had a lot of catching up to do? How we should be on our second child by now?"

Waited for the penny to drop, but it didn't. "Yes, and…?"

Stared at him hard, willing him to understand. "We're going to be all caught up, Mark. Sooner than you think."

When the blood visibly drained from his face, knew he had got it. "That isn't funny," he said solemnly.

"I'm not joking," I said with equal solemnity. Thought back, oddly enough, to Jude's April Fool's joke. And to thinking that two babies at once sounded nightmarish. (Still does. A bit.)

Mark Darcy, premiere human rights barrister who has stood up to all manner of scary governmental officials without so much as blinking an eye, looked like he might actually faint. Took his arm with both of my hands and led him to the sofa in the sitting room, petting his hair down.

"How sure is the doctor?" he asked at last.

"Pretty sure," I said. "They could hear two heartbeats." He gasped. Was going to say, 'Aside from my own', but figured that was obvious.

He put his hand over his face and slowly pulled down; suddenly had this horrible feeling had managed to go one step too far. I mean, not as if miracle possible-triple-egg-release was intentional, but still. Then his fingertips cleared his eyes and he looked to me. Could tell before even seeing his mouth that he was smiling. "I believe," he said, "this is what's called an embarrassment of riches."

Should have known he was pleased. Smiled too, leaned and took him in my arms for great big hug. "I have one favour to ask," I said.

"Name it."

"You must do everything in your power to prevent me from ever taking embarrassing baby photos. You know, one baby's first wee, the other baby's first poo, that sort of thing."

"Oh, darling," he said softly. "If you ever do, I shall divorce you in an instant."

Considering were not even married yet… "On what grounds?"

"Domestic abuse," he said. "Oh, and mental cruelty."

Giggled, then brought fingers up to comb through his hair. "How do you mean?"

"Not me, you understand, the children," he said. "They'd be scarred for life, need massive amounts of therapy, and would hate us for all eternity. No, no, my mind's set. I must protect the children."

Think he might have gone on indefinitely had I not plied him with a kiss. Before dinner, even.


	10. Chapter 10: The Closing of the Year

**If—**

By S. Faith, © 2013  
Words: 53,952 (in 10 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

Epilogue still to come. :)

* * *

**Chapter 10: The Closing of the Year**

Monday, 27 December

_9st 13 (am whale or similar); calories: 2700 (Thing 1 and Thing 2 require lots); circumference of waist: 43 inches (full-blown stomach explosion; non-gastrointestinal sort, obvs.); weeks of pregnancy: 21 (more than halfway there)_

_9.15 am. _Impossible to sleep with bowling ball lodged against bladder and jitters re: oncoming wedding. Is but a few short days away! Have never been more grateful for Mark Darcy taking care of all loose ends. Though looks as harried and exhausted as I feel.

V. glad to have chosen dress with expandable front, in manner of Regency gown like Lizzy Bennet might have worn. Am going to look like the woman in that famous Dutch wedding portrait, except with giant ivory silk protrusion instead of green velvet.

_9.25 am._ Jitters are not a result of second thoughts, because have no doubts in mind whatsoever. Jitters that will unexpectedly put on another stone by Friday, and will have to waddle down aisle. Or be wheeled in pushcart.

_10.10 am._ Has been wonderful, though, living here in Holland Park wedding cake house. Have already done up a room for babies, wonderful bright (but gender-neutral) colours. Arguments (or rather discussions) about what sex of baby were all rendered moot when subsequent scans revealed one is boy, one is girl.

Do not mean to suggest best part of living in house is house itself. Has been v. challenging but love v. much living with Mark, even if he is utterly mad at times. Mark wanted to record daily temperature / blood pressure and other health-related things once he learned it was twins. Told him it was mental to do so. He countered that it was no less mental than obsessive calorie counts and recording of weight, etc. Has not in fact insisted on pursuing obsession with vital statistics, though do wonder how he know about calorie counting, etc. (V. confident he does not read diary.)

_10.25 am._ Have asked Mark re: calorie-counting knowledge. He looked to me with strange 'you're barmy' look on face. "Tom told me."

Should probably not mention that first thought was psychic thought vibes.

_2 pm._ Feel like every night this week is party of some sort (excepting Thursday, as intend to sleep entire day and lounge well into Friday until last possible moment). Tonight is hen party with girls (though is v. tragic that cannot get properly plastered at own hen night), tomorrow dinner to welcome Tom's Carl to London (he has taken job here for US government as of first of year—perfect solution!) with Sharon, Simon, Jude and Richard. Wednesday, my parents and Mark's will be coming up to stay with us for wedding and dinner reception/New Year party, so big dinner planned for that night.

Tonight will also be Mark's stag night. Can only imagine it will involve him, Giles, Nigel, Jeremy, Richard… Simon?... sitting in gentlemen's club, puffing on cigars and sipping brandy.

(Unknown what true status is of Simon and Sharon. Thought it was all on, then she had a date with some young whippersnapper last weekend. Might have even been mad Bradley.)

_4.30 pm._ Ugh. Have put on dress picked out over weekend for purpose of hen night, but feel like am wearing festive marquee or similar. Mark assures that it looks v. flattering—ugh, hate thinking of what 'flattering' really means when midsection resembles Michelin Man's—and that look beautiful, glowing, radiant, etc.

Have no choice but to take at word.

_11.45 pm._ Completely wrecked. Night was good fun, though. Shaz directed us to nightclub (sparkling water and lemon for me), handing bunny ears to wear (and self an additional paste tiara). Music v. loud, but then stopped; handsome male stripper with gloriously toned and muscular body came in to dance for our party (think that tiara was to signal to stripper that am bride). V. good show, rousing and riling. Great sense of rhythm, moving in perfect time with music. Thought Shaz might actually have been drooling. Tom as well (because of course Tom is one of the girls).

(Mark must never know about hot young whippersnapper Rob the stripper as would wound his manhood or similar.)

_11.50 pm._ Though hot young whippersnapper Rob did not have much going on between ears. Detracted from sexiness. Still. Suppose is nice for change of pace. Not every man can be rocky-smart genius or lecture at length about the government in—

GAH!

_Later._ Was Mark Darcy, wanting to know what I was still doing up. "You need your rest." Honestly, as if feeble or similar. After pause, he smirked, looking me up and down, then added, "Was going to say 'you need your beauty sleep' but… er…"

Guess he really _did_ fancy self in that dress. Quite a passionate romp. Now though Mark is fast asleep and am rendered strangely insomniac. To consider everything that's happened this year… even just everything that has happened since end of July!... is incredible. Am v. lucky girl (though would not pass up chance to kick Kipling in the backside for his contribution to the previous comedy of errors—except he's dead).

Tuesday, 28 December

_10st (Gah. GAH!); calories: 2500 (can't scale back too much); circumference of waist: 43 inches (had better hold steady); days until wedding: 3 (!)_

_12.15 pm. _As we had breakfast, asked Mark how his night had gone for his stag party. "Oh, it was very nice," he said.

"What did you do?" I asked.

Long pause, then got somewhat dodgy answer: "Not much. Went out for a drink."

Sensed was not getting whole truth. "And…?" I prompted sternly.

"And…" He cleared his throat. "The club to which they brought me… well. Had young women taking off most of their clothes and dancing."

Mouth dropped open. Never would have thought the likes of Giles and Nigel would do this! "What?!"

"It was awful," he said, and was clear he really thought so; immediately regretted accusatory tone. "Jeremy's idea." Unsurprising. "I didn't know where to look so I stared into my cocktail most of the time until we left." Felt v. bad that Mark did not enjoy his night. Also felt guilty that had enjoyed mine v. much. Then, in obvious desperate ploy to change subject, he asked, "What about you?"

Doom.

"Great!" I said in wildly disproportionate tone of delight. "We had a great time."

"And what did _you_ do?"

Déjà vu moment. Determined not to be caught in same manner as Mark. Answered directly and confidently. "Went to a nightclub for some dancing with ridiculous bunny girl ears and I had a tiara though it was sort of a bummer that I couldn't have a drink but I had fun anyway."

"Ah," he said. Caught him smirking. "You're such a little liar, Bridget."

Heart raced. Was not possible he could have been told. Was he in fact psychic? "Don't know what you're talking about," I said huffily. "I am not lying. We did do all of those things."

"Okay, a liar whose lie is by omission, then," he said.

"Why on earth would you think that?"

"Because you spoke in one great long sentence without a single pause to breathe."

Resignation washed over self. Was true. Had sort of succumbed to verbal diarrhoea. Was afraid to say anything more for fear of increased self-incrimination, so instead took in great breath and just told the truth. "Fine. Sharon hired a stripper and he showed up at the club."

He didn't look surprised at all. "I thought she might have done. And…?"

"And…" I floundered. "I didn't have the benefit of a cocktail to stare at."

At this he laughed. "Darling," he said, reaching to cover my hand with his. "It's all right if you had a good time. At the end of the day, you're marrying me, aren't you?"

Should have realised he would handle it as mature adult—though getting engaged, finding out your fiancée is expecting your child (well, child_ren_) and cohabitating with her probably helped to build up his reassurance. Has done mine, come to think. Though was not sure would have been okay with it if he'd enjoyed young, lithe women dancing, as presently feel the size of hippo.

Time to go and find something nice and dressy in v. limited dressy pregnancy wardrobe, for dinner with Tom and Carl and other friends. Tom is cooking! Teased me, promising not to make blue soup. Bloody Tom. Glad he is so happy and that things are working out for him.

_8.45 pm._ Home a bit early. Such a fun night, but was really tired, so Mark insisted we come home. After Christmas (despite being v. low-key), the fourth anniversary of Hintlesham Hall shagging, then all of this wedding stuff, next week will seem so dull in comparison. Well, except will be on honeymoon, but that too will be rather low-key.

Confirmed that Sharon and Simon have split up, though came together to the dinner, and still quite genial and friendly. Whatever happened was v. amicable. Still not v. clear to me at all what's going on, and have not had time to really properly pry and ask.

Can barely hold pen now, so should head to bed. Looking forward to sleeping—now that have sprouted discernable bump (one that is most definitely pregnant tummy and not just extra weight), Mark has taken to cradling it most protectively with hand when we're spooned for sleep. Funnily, has not had any effect on desire to have sex.

Wednesday, 29 December

_10st (feel as if am holding back crumbling dam with single finger); calories: 2600 (bloody Mum); circumference of waist: 43 inches (so far); days until wedding: 2_

_8.30 am. _Couldn't sleep any longer because went to bed so early, so came down and had some tea and a croissant. Am slightly nervous about impending invasion by the parental units. Hope it will all be fine, but am afraid will devolve into a Mum/Una-style sieve/stir-the-gravy scenario between Mum and Elaine Darcy. Not sure our combined parents have ever shared quarters before. Is fairly large house, though, so should be all right.

_10 am._ Mum and Dad have arrived. Have forgotten how calming a presence my dad can be. Think he was wiping tear from eye when first laid eyes on me. Not like he hadn't seen me since before belly was obvious, but had worn big loose jumper on Christmas, and today, a much snugger shirt.

"My little moppet, look at you," he said as he gave me a great big hug. "So glad everything's worked out as it has."

Smiled and hugged him tight. "Me too," I said softly.

Got them all settled in in their room, and they are presently gawking about in the nursery. Frankly am a bit astonished my mother isn't pitching a fit about the idea of being a granny, despite wanting me, _begging_ me, to have a baby.

_12 noon._ Good God. Spoke too soon; think the sight of the nursery really drove it home that she will soon be a grandmother. My mother is insisting that she not be called Granny or Gran.

"It's ageing, _darling_," she said to me post-nursery visit. "You're only as old as you _feel_, and if your little ones are calling me 'Granny'"—This she said with a _visible_ shudder!—"then I'm going to feel perfectly _ancient_."

"What would you prefer they call you?" I asked, humouring her.

"Pam," she said, lifting her chin defiantly. Saw my father roll his eyes. "I'm a person in my own right, and I shouldn't be defined by my relations to others."

"Mum, that is silly," I said. "I can't have the children calling you 'Pam'—_I_ don't even call you that."

"Maybe you should."

_No_, I thought; _She is losing her mind._

Just then, though, my dad saved the day. "They'll just call you 'Loony', anyway. May as well just go with that."

_3 pm._ Mark's parents are now here. Feel as if some balance of sanity has been restored. So lovely to see such a happy appraisal from the Darcys in just their expressions alone.

Having a little lie down mostly to escape incessant chatter in kitchen, where Mum and Elaine have taken the reins of dinner and are getting the roast and potatoes into oven. Dad and Malcolm are watching the football, along with Mark, who has brought out beer and crisps. So basically, traditional gender roles being well enforced on the premises. (Actually am not sure would trust any meal prepared by Mark's dad, to be honest. Not sure he has ever cooked for himself a day in his life.)

_6.30 pm._ Woke about 4.25 pm when felt bed moving. Was Mark sitting down beside me to see if was okay. Guess I slept longer than intended. Told him was fine, asked how the match was. Didn't answer. Instead crawled in beside me to spoon up to me.

"Needed a bit of respite from the cacophony," he said, "and could think of no better place."

So now have just woken again to knock on door to inform that dinner was within the hour. Need to go wrangle hair and otherwise make self presentable. Hope can sleep well tonight.

Friday, 31 December

_10st 1 (good thing dress v. forgiving, unlike Kipling's minute); calories: 2800 (can indulge on wedding day, surely); circumference of waist: 43½ inches (babies trying to steal spotlight); days until wedding: 0 (!)_

_5.30 am. _Nerves in state of frenzy. Trying to meditate (well, at least to have meditative thoughts) to calm self. Did not want to wake Mark so am in kitchen with cup of tea.

Yesterday was v. g. Relaxing. Mark took me to couple's spa day for utter pampering: manicure, pedicure, massage (special care due to pregnancy). Thank goodness muscles do not feel noodly or otherwise in pain today. Had previously declined offer for haircut as all friends discouraged messing with hair in any way too close to wedding day as no time for recovery should something go wrong. Also remembered Paolo incident all too well.

_7 am._ V. nice. Elaine Darcy came down a bit ago to go out into back to have a cigarette, was surprised to find self in kitchen. Instead she made tea, too, and sat with me, big smile on face. Realised we had not really had private time, one on one, since Mark and I had got back together.

"I hope you know how very pleased we are that you and Mark worked things out," she said, not waiting for subject's introduction. Then, in slightly more whispered tones, "I encouraged him to let you know how he felt. I think that's why he wrote the note—you know, he's never felt comfortable talking about emotional things."

Was astonished. Elaine had known the whole time that he'd written that note, and… realised she must have thought I'd rejected him. And she _still_ liked me! So I told her about the mistakenly swapped note for "If" poem. She smiled, put her arm around me and gave me a little squeeze of a hug, then muttered with a chuckle, "Bloody Kipling."

Could not help but laugh too. With babies on board and a wedding in the extremely near future, was easy to laugh now.

_8.30 am._ Mark came down shortly after wrote that, when he'd woken to find me gone. "Everything all right?" he asked, hugging me as I sat at the breakfast nook, kissing top of head in affectionate manner. Told him was quite all right, gestured to where his mum was smoking her trademark Sobranie. He chuckled. "At least one of the women in my life has dropped that habit."

The plan for the day is to get hair styled, makeup done and get dressed, by 2 pm in order to get to church by 4 pm (leaving with plenty of time to spare due to unforeseen circumstances as well as insane London traffic). Wedding party is v. much like musical chairs from Jude's own wedding: Shazzer, Jude and Tom as bridesmaids, and Richard, Simon and Giles for groomsmen. (Tom is not a 'maid' as such, and was in San Francisco (with Carl!) and thus not at Jude's wedding, but wanted to include him in mine v. much.) Constance was beside herself with glee at thought of being flower-girl and ring-bearer (Magda's boys still too young to be trusted with rings). Mum was a bit put off that did not ask Jamie and Becca to be in wedding party, but the groomsmen are groom's decision and Mark and Jamie barely know each other. As for Becca, have never been overly fond of her, and secretly suspect Becca thinks am the antichrist for not being vegan.

Caterers are to come to house while we are at the church, in order to set up for reception / party in the style of Turkey Curry Buffet. Think Mum is less than pleased to not have a more traditional reception, but reminded her that the house served more than adequately for Malcolm and Elaine's Ruby Wedding party. "Besides," I said. "I'll be able to go straight up to bed as soon as I'm tired." That seemed to mollify her.

Reception to start at 7.30 pm with dinner at 8 pm. Have asked Mark about music but he has only smiled in response, so is quite the mystery. Hope it is not stiff, stodgy quartet or similar. Surely Mark knows self well enough by now.

_1.10 pm._ Feeling a bit overwhelmed. Now have hair all done up in twist with curls and pearl combs, and picture-perfect makeup. Friends seem on verge of tears (Mark banished and forbidden to see me after Mum caught us embracing in kitchen). Feel like fairy princess. Leaving dress for last minute, as will surely spill something on it if put it on too soon.

_1.55 pm._ Dress on. Ivory silk (as previously mentioned) and a bit of lace. Not as much lace or as poufy as Mum would've liked. Is really more like something Elizabeth Bennet might've worn to a ball in the BBC _Pride and Prejudice_. Is now a tiny bit snug at waistline, but nothing to be done about it. Looks gorgeous. Empire-style waist perfect, and _really_ shows off enhanced bosom.

Shoes are low, low kitten heels—cannot do flats as Mark will tower over me, but centre of gravity all wrong with bigger belly, so might fall over with higher heels.

Necklace on, pearl drop earrings in place. Tom has veil.

Time to go.

_6.05 pm._ Am married. MARRIED!

Am now back at home for a little nap before guests beginning to arrive. (Being pregnant is v. convenient excuse for resting whenever one feels like it.)

Ceremony started promptly at four, which laid to rest all fears (and/or bets) that would be late to own wedding. Coming down aisle with Dad was similar to having life flashing before eyes, with relatives and family friends (i.e. Geoffrey's smirky, ogling face) lining the aisles as we passed them by.

Then saw Mark seeing me in dress and veil for first time. Swore he was going to cry right there, which was quite something given his considerable capacity for reserve. Soft expression, misty eyes, lines tensing in jaw, fighting for control of emotion. Then he drew back veil… and the rest is all quite a blur until were proclaimed husband and wife and we processed out. (Honestly, though, had passing thought that Daniel Cleaver might burst into church in manner of Dustin Hoffman in _The Graduate_ and declare undying love, not that would have run off with him, obviously, but still glad did not happen.)

Not too crowded, but then again, we did not have v. large invite list (Mark's brother Peter could not come, which was v. sad as have not really met him, but he sent his regrets with a surprisingly amusing and touching video message on disc, and a v. lovely present for the two of us: gorgeous silver frame engraved with our names and the date). Thought Jamie and his girlfriend had not managed to make it to ceremony, but Mum told me later that they'd come in late. They'd apparently hit traffic coming down from Manchester (do not know why they didn't come down last night). Haven't asked about their staying over post-reception, but will steel myself for possibility.

One small snafu at ceremony: Constance, with whom we had entrusted the rings, decided at last moment to refuse to hand them over. "If you're a married mummy," she declared, "then you won't play with me anymore." Found out afterwards that she had asked Magda about my stomach (had not seen her since it had really popped out), wanting to know if had eaten football or similar, then had explained that no, there were babies in there and that I was going to be a mum come the spring.

Crouched down as best as could and explained that one of the babies was a girl, and we could all play together—and would she like that? Big beaming smile, then she nodded enthusiastically. Smiled turned quickly to look of scepticism along with pointed stare at my belly. "There's more than one baby in there?"

"Yes," I said, fully aware that the ceremony was at an awkward standstill.

"How?" she asked. Round of polite laughter.

"They're very small," said Mark from above her as if booming (though patient) voice of God. She looked up at him with big, round eyes, muttered an "Oh," placed rings in Mark's outstretched hand, then went over to where Shaz was beckoning her.

Afterwards, took photos at church—cannot wait to see the one with Mum, Dad, Elaine, Malcolm, and Mark and me—then some more out in the back garden (though is v. cold outdoors). Was v. touched—Jamie came to the house just before came upstairs, while was still all done up in bridal gown, shoes, veil and all, and we posed for a picture together. (God only knows where Becca went to.) Was expecting usual humorous jab, tease or similar but instead, he looked v. emotional, and gave me a proper tight hug and kiss on cheek.

"You all right?" I asked quietly into his ear.

"Me? Just fine," he said; his voice really had picked up the Manchester lilt. "Just a bit much, seeing my baby sister in bridal attire with babies of her own on the way."

Now am (temporarily) divested of wedding dress in order to have a v. brief lie-down. Hope do not get hair all wonky or smudge makeup too badly.

Saturday, 1 January

_10st 1 (not bad given yesterday's debauching); calories: 2500 (comfort to babies); circumference of waist: 43½ inches (surely will explode like dying star any time now); days since was singleton: 1 (hurrah!)_

_10.30 am. _Long, luxurious lie-in in own comfortable bed after possibly best day—and night—of life.

Woke at about 7 pm from nap. Since would be only day in life intended on wearing wedding dress, had decided to wear it to reception too. Most brides do, and dress is not so enormous (in manner of Disney Cinderella) that it would knock over lamps or disturb the catering spread.

First face saw once downstairs was Mark. Husband. HUSBAND! He smiled and reached out his hand to me, then pulled me into a hug. "Have a nice nap?"

"Not bad." Pause. "Do I look all right? Don't have lines on my face from wrinkles on the pillow or anything, do I?"

He chuckled. "No, you look radiant. Come, have a look at your reception."

Took me into dining room. Could not believe eyes. It was all decked out for party, with festive snowflake/winter motif as well as sparkly white hearts. Catering spread—rather, beginnings of catering spread, as were still setting up—was outstanding. Realised was v. hungry, once the delicious smell of turkey curry hit nose.

Wondered if had started to drool or similar, because Mark chuckled and said, "Want a little plate?"

"Yes," I said—then felt face flush as realised had sounded v. desperate.

Brought me a plate of food and a kitchen towel to keep me from getting curry on dress. Was really magnificent. Shall be spoiled for all future Turkey Curry Buffets at Una's.

After partaking, Mark took the plate. As got to feet, heard the unmistakeable sound of stringed instruments tuning up. Heart dropped to my feet. A string quartet! The tune was vaguely familiar, possibly Mozart.

Heard Mark chuckle again as if reading mind. "Give them a chance, darling," he said.

"But…"

"None of that," he interrupted. "Trust your husband."

As guests began to arrive, the quartet changed tunes. Listened in disbelief when realised the tune was something much more familiar (though a bit slowed down, tempo-wise), then started to chuckle. "Is that… 'Like a Prayer'?

"I believe that it is, yes," said Mark coolly before smiling. "Told you to trust me."

Reception/party was not too terribly big, consisting of families and family friends, and of course our friends. Included a few colleagues too: Perpetua from old job, Grant, Patchouli, and Taylor, who works with us permanently now and has become more than just acquaintance, though obviously not part of Urban Family. (Also obviously, Rebecca was _not_ invited as she is no longer friend, though would love to be fly on wall when she hears have married Mark and am bearing his children. Is v. wrong, though, to think such uncharitable, gloating thoughts.) Mark's colleagues also came, including Giles, Nigel, Louise Barton-Foster and the hoorah who looked like Prince Andrew (whose name have again forgotten). Was shocked to see them there and so friendly. Mark confided to me after our chat that they never disliked me, as had previously feared: "No, darling. They didn't _agree_ with you, but they admired the courage of your convictions in an unfriendly environment." Sort of like a lamb amongst lions, I said—at which Mark laughed. "But they're very glad that I'm happy. They can see that you make me happy."

Found Jamie early on to ask where Becca had got off to. Had not seen her all day. He seemed sheepish and explained that the two of them had had a row after she had caught him eating a great big plate of turkey curry—and enjoying it with too much relish for her liking. "But you're not vegan, are you?" I asked.

"Well, no," he said. "But I don't think I've actually had a bite of meat in five years, because we don't keep anything animal-related in the house and…" He sighed. "It just smelled so good, you know? And it's not fair—she doesn't compromise at all on it. You have to have compromise, right?"

"Yes," I said, suddenly feeling like wise married lady. Felt sad for him because while she annoys the piss out of me, they have seemed happy all this time. "I hope you can work it out."

After a brief resting period (some of the food was left out for people to graze on) things were set up for the dancing. Had first dance with Mark. While we danced there was total silence in room apart from music, which was a bit odd, then applause as song ended. Afterwards, had father-daughter dance with my dad, who was red-eyed and stoic as if he hadn't been quietly weeping into a handkerchief (poor Dad), but clearly happy. During this, Mark danced with his mum. Finally, danced with Malcolm while Mark danced with Mum—she looked v. pleased. Portugal finally all forgotten.

Had hoped to avoid some wedding traditions, but didn't, like clanging the glassware for a kiss (Mark turned pink every time) and the dreaded garter removal (Mark turned red, nearly refused and came v. close to murdering Jeremy, who suggested it). But it was all in good taste and lots of fun, and eventually even Mark was laughing.

Did cutting of cake, etc. etc. Caterer wrapped up topmost layer for storage in freezer. Decided needed a bit of a break and offered to take it to kitchen myself. As approached kitchen, heard tittering, and found Jamie and Becca sitting on the floor under the breakfast nook, drinking wine and eating turkey curry. Both of them!

"It's probably going to make me sick," she said, "but my doctor's been on my case to start eating a little animal protein again. I guess I can make a few compromises… but no leather."

Jamie shook his head. "Nope, no leather, boss."

She giggled and leaned over to kiss him and suddenly, for the first time since he'd started seeing her, felt warm feelings towards her.

As dancing progressed to the stringed-up tunes of the 80s (more Madonna, and Duran Duran / Culture Club / Wham! / etc.) and alcohol imbibed (none for me, obviously), topic of discussion turned, oddly enough, to possible names for the babies. We have had our own discussions about names, as yet not very fruitful, but no one believed us when we said we really hadn't picked any. And everyone begged us to tell them if they'd guessed the right names. At this rate, will name them after the people who pester us about it the least.

At about 10.30 pm, Elaine Darcy came over to us looking quite perplexed. "One of the caterers came to me to say this had just come." It was a fancy gift box, rectangular in shape, long and covered in shiny silver paper and a big bow. Was also a bit heavier than expected.

"What on earth is it?" I asked. Admit I thought of fancy wrap job on bullet on which name had been engraved.

"Only one way to find out, said Mark, who took it and carried it over to the table, garnering a little audience as he did so. He tugged on the bow, lifted the lid, and—

Inside was enormous bottle of champagne—honest to goodness champagne, v. expensive and v. old vintage Dom Perignon. Gasped when saw it.

"There's a card," said Mark. It was addressed to both of us. He gestured I should open it. Inside, it said:

_Bridge & Darce—_

_Had the pleasure today of witnessing an event that I thought surely would be the paradox signalling the end the world. But the world did not end; here we are, nearly the new year, and after such miraculous happenings I thought I'd offer an olive branch (or at the very least, fermented grapes) to send my sincere congratulations on your marriage and your babies-to-be. Perhaps save it for the summer to celebrate the birth?_

_Warm regards_

_Daniel Cleaver_

_Ps. Gorgeous as ever, Bridge, though skirt's far too long._

(Briefly wondered how Daniel possibly could have known about twins—wiretapping, theft of medical records or similar—but realised he probably just heard people talking in the church. Though—how had he known of wedding? Perpetua? Yes, probably.)

Handed the note to Mark, waited for steam to come from ears at thought that Daniel was in the church and commenting on skirt… but said steam did not happen. In fact, he did not seem angry at all. Actually think I saw him smiling. Turned to me as if (again) reading my mind. "Why should I be upset?" he asked quietly. "You're _my_ wife, and if you think about it, if not for him, you might not have been." He then kissed me and tucked the card into his pocket.

"Who's it from?" asked the hoorah.

"My brother," Mark said, not missing a beat. "Sorry, though; we're saving it for another special occasion, so that my darling wife can enjoy it too."

My darling wife. Loved the sound of it!

We had a dance to something slow and lovely—might have been something by Billy Joel, not entirely sure—then we (and by this mean the girls and me—Mark went off to talk to someone) danced again, this time to an impressive rendition of "Safety Dance", when the fatigue of the day hit me all at once. Took a seat on the sofa (reserved for me, perks of being bride, and pregnant to boot), and was brought all manner of treats.

"So Bridge," asked Shaz, "you can tell us the names, you know."

"Shazzie," I said, "we really haven't picked any. I promise." Explained how we were having differences of opinion—traditional English names vs. something a bit more daring—and that they would be the first to know when we did. "Apart from my mum and such." Occurred to me that still had not got the full story on Simon, so pressed for details.

She looked a bit shy, and spoke quietly, though there was no chance of being overheard. "We decided to break it off and just be friends. Neither of us know exactly what we want, though we know we love one another. Who knows what the future will bring?"

Thought back to three or so years of pure friendship with the man am now married to. Had v. certain feeling at that moment that everything would work out for them, that they would come out the other end stronger partners than ever before, and maybe even married, too, or at least solidly committed.

"Don't you smug-married-smirk at me," she hissed, though when I looked up she was smiling. Think she knew very well what was on my mind.

At about 11 pm party favours for ringing in the new year were trotted out, as was coffee and tea, champagne for toasting, and cut up wedding cake for dessert. Must have dozed off for a bit because next thing it was five 'til the hour. At stroke of midnight, had little tiny sip of champagne and kiss from brand new husband. After that, people began to sense things were winding down, started gathering up coats, etc. Parents stayed up in order to tend to them; Mark took me upstairs to officially consummate the marriage before we both collapsed from exhaustion. Is surely stuck with me now.

Oh! Time for brunch.

_3.30 pm._ Have now said our goodbyes to parents and Jamie and Becca, who gave me great hug! Was quite shocked. Have now come up for a bit of a rest; expecting Mark shortly so that we can pack. We are not heading out on honeymoon until tomorrow morning, but are taking lots of time to prepare. Can see that Mark is v. g. influence on me already—alone, I would have left packing until last possible moment.

We gave honeymoon location a lot of thought. Would probably be last holiday-type thing we would have in a while, especially on our own. Would have been nice to go back to Provence, but doctor has advised no flying because of twin situation and to be on safe side. Plus, is dead of winter, so beach not likely to be as fun (or so am telling self). In the end, decided that since we would likely spend most of time alone in room in bed, it didn't matter precisely where was going. Therefore have decided only to take a suite at a nearby historic mansion-turned-hotel and lounge in utter, decadent luxury for two weeks.

Sunday, 2 January

_10st 3 (ah, there it is); calories: 2400 (continued tug-of-war with needy babies); circumference of waist: 43¾ inches (not a surprise); days since was singleton: 2 (still v. weird to be 'Mrs Darcy'); cost of honeymoon suite, per night: same as flat (approx.)_

_11.20 am. Lady Astor Suite, Cliveden House, mere left turn from Heathrow. _Have just been shown to room—no, suite—no, actually, not 'suite' either. Is more like 'entire floor' or 'wing'. Is enormous. Could get lost in here!

Mark asked if was happy. Am not sure how could be otherwise; perhaps gobsmacked silence sent wrong message. "I love it," I said, staring with wide eyes at the portrait on the wall. "I'm just afraid we may have to sign over one of the children to pay for it."

He laughed out loud—gorgeous, spontaneous, unfettered laughter—and put his arms around me, snuggling into hair. Felt warm breath on ear, waited with anticipation for wooing words or kiss. Instead, he said, "Bloody Kipling."


	11. Epilogue

**If—**

By S. Faith, © 2013  
Words: 53,952 (in 10 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

Have been dealing with RL stuff and so haven't been as attentive to comments as usual. Know they are all read and appreciated. Thank you xx

* * *

**Epilogue**

Tuesday, 2 May

_9st 2 (slow and steady wins race); calories: 2250 (must keep babies in milk and all); circumference of waist: 37 inches (huge improvement over largest measurement); days since family doubled in size: 8_

_12 pm. _Is a universal truth: being a new mother is exhausting. Think this is first day in a week have slept past 7 am, thanks to wonderful new father (to babies, not to me, obvs.). Babies are pink and wrinkly, do nothing but cry a lot and soil their nappies, and… are an absolute joy. Feel like pod person or similar to think such thought. But at least have not resorted to taking photos of poo.

Mark was great in hospital, stayed by side entire time and held my hand, doing all the breathing exercises we'd learnt (though nearly caused himself to hyperventilate). He's got leave to help for the whole of my maternity period. Feels like dream come true.

Perhaps is a blessing that did not record apex (nadir?) of weight and girth—believe have blocked out memory as self-defence mechanism. Mark insists was not as huge as I thought I was. Told him it was his job to tell such pretty lies.

Mum, Dad, Elaine and Malcolm all came up over the weekend to meet the twins. Reactions exactly as expected: Mum, gibbering with wet, snotty bawling; Dad, in tears but a bit more reserved about it; Elaine, beaming and proud but obviously emotional; and Malcolm, laughing and joking about looking forward to bouncing them on his knee in tandem.

Jamie and Becca came down to visit, as well, as first time as uncle and all. They look great; happy, at ease, and Becca not quite so militant about foodstuffs, etc. Jamie was adorable—sort of like Mark first time ever saw him hold baby (Rusty)—and Becca, to my astonishment, was a natural with the twins. Turns out she has three siblings younger than she is. Never knew!

Obviously Peter and his wife could not come to visit from Hong Kong (they hope to be able to in the autumn, hurrah!) but we felt his presence most acutely in gift of child-sized pair of stuffed-animal-shaped chairs for when they're a bit older. V. soft and cosy.

Friends were giddy when came to visit. Jude asked all the questions she'd been asked when she'd first had Rusty, about weight, length, Apgar, etc. Sharon looked a bit… well, don't want to say jealous, but could tell her maternal instincts were flaring. "Oh, Bridgeline," said Tom, "you're looking so thin!" Then made some comment about being so fashionable as to have a matched set. Love him. (Though in actual fact, they are not a matched set. One's blonde like her mum, the other dark like his dad.) Magda brought the children; they were adorable, tentative, in awe, as if viewing weird new animal at zoo. Had to chuckle a bit when Constance asked when she might be able to play with—

Ooh, Mark calling.

_2.25 pm._ Turns out feeding was needed. Not a service their father could have done.

_2.30 pm._ Compromise obviously reached on babies' names, since we are not in fact calling them 'the girl' and 'the boy'. Mark was pretty unwavering in wanting to stick to something traditional, and had to admit the naming advice from friends who are parents—"Don't name them something you'll get sick of yelling when you call them down for dinner" (Magda) and "Imagine the name but then say 'Member of Parliament' afterwards" (Nigel, apparently)—was starting to wear self down.

However, was not ready to just settle for something like St John or, ha, Lavinia.

So, in honour of background in literature, the twins are thus named William and Elizabeth, and only because giving a child the first name 'Fitzwilliam' in modern times is cruel and unusual (as family name, though, is quite all right, obvs.). Will and Lizzie for short. Though Jude made point to say she thought it a bit odd to name siblings after famous romantic couple. After a beat, told her had to go and to give Rusty a kiss from Auntie / Godmother Bridget. (She hates Tom's nickname for her son. Ha.)

_2.40 pm._ Ow. Not looking forward to the pair of them acquiring teeth.

_2.45 pm._ Mark has offered to rub soothing balm on soreness. Feel must take him up on such a generous offer.

_9 pm._ Too hard to write with babes in arms, and as they get bigger fear will not write nearly as often. (Hardly wrote at all after honeymoon; then again, was honeymoon followed by self steadily growing as large as Hindenburg.)

Day was sunny and bright (though cool), so after all and sundry had naps (including the half that does already communicate verbally), dressed babies into warm things, put them in the pram, then took quick walk around Holland Park. Was so nice to get outside, though walk was v. short as self is still a bit, er, sore. When got home put babies down for nap, then cooked dinner together and ate before babies needed feeding again. Watched a little telly, and now getting ready to go to sleep (certainly cuddling before sleep). Is my turn for night-time duty tonight; love/hate relationship with breast milk pump as it is torture device, but allows me to sleep through night some nights. Not too much to ask, surely, that babies be sleep prodigies and go through night without waking after only one week?

_11.55 pm._ No such luck. Both babies went off at once so did dual feeding—one in each arm, v. impressed with self even if they are tiny—before putting them back down. Now cannot fall back asleep. Perhaps should do laundry.

Oh dear. Am turning into… not sure what am turning into. Actually, feel a bit strange in admitting that it is not half bad, whatever 'it' is.

_Later._ Awoke to find self alone in giant bed. Felt slight panic, as Mark's side of bed was not only empty but pulled flat as if he'd never been sleeping there at all.

Pushed back my side and quietly made way to nursery. Mind went through scenarios of what would do if that room too was empty. Was it possible could have slept through triple kidnapping (during which Mark made the bed)? Need not have worried though, as there, nestled in the corner of the huge padded recliner with babes securely cradled in crook of his left arm (and secured against arm of recliner with right), was Mark, fast asleep. Will and Lizzie looked up to me in silence, eyes huge and dark in the dim light, but were (amazingly) not crying.

Quietly took seat on glider rocking chair beside them and merely looked on in silent happiness. He must have come in after they'd awakened again, determined to get them to sleep, and fell asleep instead. Wished had thought to bring in mobile to snap photo as was v. sweet scene to see (and one which certainly did not violate the No Poo Photo Agreement).

Slowly, Mark's lids lifted and were, to my surprise, fixed directly on me. He smiled in a really gorgeous, sleepy, sexy way. "What are you doing?" he asked, sotto voce.

Durr. Answer was all too obvious: "Waking you with thought vibes."

_The end._


End file.
